°( 


Jt7 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  BY  THE  RIYER. 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  BY  THE  EIYEE, 


THE 


OLD  HOUSE  BY  THE  RIVER. 


BY   THE   AUTHOR   OF 

THE   OWL   CREEK   LETTERS. 


NEW    YORK: 
HARPER    &    BROTHERS,    PUBLISHERS, 

Nos.  329  AND  331  PEARL  STREET, 

FRANKLIN     SQUARE. 

1853. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1853, 

BY    HARPER    &    BROTHERS, 
In  the  Clerk's  Office  for  the  Southern  District  of  New  York. 


TO 


TIT  HEN  this  book  was  prepared  for  the  press, 
several  years  ago,  your  name,  as  you  will 
remember,  was  on  this  dedicatory  page,  and  I 
would  not  displace  it  now.  But  the  book  is  not 
dedicated  to  you,  nor  will  you  value  it  any  the  less 
for  that.  Times  change,  and  we  change  with  them ; 
and  although  nothing  has  occurred,  or  could  pos 
sibly  occur,  to  change  our  close  attachment,  yet  it 
will  not  be  necessary  for  me  to  explain  to  you  why 
I  give  the  book  to  one  who  now  has  a  place  nearer 
to  me,  and  to  all  my  thoughts  and  hopes,  than  ever 
you  or  Joe  Willis  have  had. 

The  old  house  on  the  river  stands  where  it  did 
when  the  book  was  written,  but  its  tenants  are  no 
longer  there.  Joe  Willis,  our  friend,  is  a  wanderer. 


DEDICATORY. 

The  old  house  is  closed,  the  housekeeper  its  only 
occupant ;  and  Anthony,  prince  of  family  servants 
that  he  was,  sleeps  in  the  graveyard,  near  his  young 
mistress  and  old  master. 

I  am  in  my  city  home,  surrounded  by  new 
friends,  new  scenes,  and  new  employments  ;  and  I 
ought  to  add  here,  that  these  scenes  and  days  are 
happier  than  those,  strange  as  it  may  seem. 

I  do  not  care  to  say  what  reasons  have  induced 
the  publication  of  the  volume  after  so  long  delay. 
You  may  guess  at  them,  provided  you  like  the 
book.  I  trust  you  will  like  it. 

I  need  not  say  to  you  that  there  is  some  fiction 
in  the  volume,  for  a  certain  amount  was  necessary 
to  conceal  the  identity  and  personality  of  the  inci 
dents. 

The  heart  of  every  reader  will  spare  me  the  ne 
cessity  of  saying  how  much  there  is  in  the  volume 
which  is  no  fiction. 

There  are  experiences  such  as  no  imagination 
can  paint,  joys  and  sufferings  such  as  none  can  de 
scribe  but  those  who  have  known  them  experi- 


DEDICATORY. 

mentally.  However  much  in  this  took  may  be 
called  sentimental,  or  weak,  I  care  not.  I  have  a 
hope  for  the  book.  It  is  that  it  may  reach  some 
hearts  that  will  acknowledge  the  faithfulness  of 
much  that  it  professes  to  delineate,  and  that  it  may 
lead  the  minds  of  those,  who  in  the  busy  scenes  of 
the  world  are  forgetting  their  own  histories,  back 
to  the  gentler  and  purer  days,  when  the  springs  of 
life  gushed  from  cool,  deep  fountains,  unstained  and 
sparkling  in  the  light  of  heaven. 

Do  you  remember  that  day,  (how  many  years 
ago !)  when  we  lay  together  on  the  deck  of  the 
Phantom,  and  looked  down  into  the  clear  deep 
water.  You  then  spoke  of  the  everlasting  impress 
ion  of  thought  on  the  mind,  and  shortly  after  that 
one  of  us  suggested  the  idea  of  a  volume  something 
like  this.  I  retained  the  idea,  and  prepared  the 
book.  It  has  lain  among  my  papers  ever  since. 
Neither  of  us  then  thought  that  one  of  the  gay 
company  who  was  with  us  on  the  boat  that  day, 
would  win  me  from  the  old  hall,  the  Phantom, 
and  Joe  Willis.  But  so  it  has  proved  ;  and  to  her, 


DEDICATORY. 

dear  as  she  is  to  both  of  us,  you  will  be  glad  to 
have  me  give  this  volume,  as  I  now  do,  with  ear 
nest  hopes  for  its  success,  and  with  fear,  not  on  my 
own  account,  but  lest  I  should  not  have  done  her 
sufficient  honor,  by  offering  such  pages  as  these. 
I  am,  my  dear  James, 

Ever  yours  faithfully, 

$. 

APRIL,  1858. 


I.— JOE  WILLIS 11 

II.— ADAM  PIERS  ON  39 

III.— THE  BEAR  HUNT    -  -         61 

IV.— DELIRIUM  TREMENS  -  65 

V.— DEATH  OF  THE  PANTHER    •      -"  75 

VI.— GHOSTS  IN  THE  HALL            ...  83 

VII.— THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  PHANTOM          -  -         99 

VIIL— MONTAUZ                           -            -             -            .  H5 

IX.— THE  WAIL  OF  THE  WIND           -             -  125 

X.— INDIAN  RELICS     .....  139 

XL— TROUT-FISHING        -                          -             -  -       151 

XII.— FOREST  LIFE      -                          ...  193 

XIII.— WIFE-HUNTING        -                        -            -  -      223 

XIV.— THE  OLD  CHURCH  AND  OLD  FRIENDS  -      253 

XV.— LATER  TEARS 305 


I. 


npHE  old  house  stands  on  the  river-bank,  in  a  grove  of 
-*•  oaks,  the  growth  of  more  than  a  century.  The 
house  is  large,  built  of  stone  in  the  substantial  style  of 
fifty  years  ago,  with  broad  halls,  endless  suites  of  rooms, 
deep  windows  and  large  chimneys.  The  antique  appear 
ance  of  the  building  is  forcibly  contrasted  with  the  per 
fection  of  modern  luxury  in  the  interior  arrangements ; 
nor  is  there  a  wish  that  the  most  fastidious  of  tastes  will 
find  ungratified,  in  the  various  portions  of  the  establish 
ment. 

At  the  foot  of  the  lawn  which  slopes  to  the  river's 
edge,  is  a  stone  wharf,  at  which  our  boat  is  lying  in 
pleasant  weather.  The  stables  are  at  a  convenient  dis- 
stance  from  the  house,  and  the  road  is  a  half  mile  off, 
the  park  grounds  stretching  away  toward  it. 

About  four  miles  from  us  is  the  village  and  the  post- 
office,  while  nearer,  and  at  various  distances,  are  old 
places,  mostly  visible  from  the  upper  windows  of  the  hall, 
where  some  of  the  pleasantest  families  in  the  county 
reside. 


14  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    RIVER. 

Here,  surrounded  by  all  that  can  make  the  days  pass 
calmly  and  joyously,  my  old  friend  and  I  live  together, 
quarrelling  not  with  time  or  weather ;  and  here  the  years 
glide  gently  along  by  us,  or  bear  us  along  with  them  unto 
that  pleasant  land  of  rest  to  which  we  look  forward  with 
out  fear  or  hesitation. 

My  friend  is  no  ordinary  man.  To  know  him  you 
must  know  all  his  history,  for  his  character  is  made  up  of 
the  experiences  of  a  life  of  much  joy,  and  not  a  little  sor 
row.  To  look  at  him  as  he  sits  in  his  easy-chair  yonder 
under  the  swinging  lamp,  you  would  not  fancy  his  life 
had  been  so  varied  a  story ;  but  as  you  know  him  you 
will  learn  to  love  him  for  the  sacred  love  with  which  he 
treasures  all  the  past,  and  then  the  wealth  of  his  soul 
will  open  to  you,  and  you  will  grow  rich  in  his  mem 
ories. 

He  has  been  my  friend  from  childhood,  and  we  two 
have  roughed  it  together  thus  far  through  the  world.  In 
the  forest,  and  in  the  crowded  city  alike,  we  have  been 
side  by  side  for  many  years,  more  indeed  than  either  of 
us  now  care  to  admit. 

In  the  month  of  January,  in  a  year  which  I  will  not 
name,  for  the  years  go  so  fast  that  I  dare  not  tell  you 
how  long  ago  these  things  happened,  Joe  and  myself 
were  still  at  the  cabin.  It  was  late  for  hunting,  and  the 
deer  were  in  poor  condition.  But  there  had  been  very 
little  snow,  and  now  indeed  it  was  all  gone.  The  air 
had  for  several  days  been  soft  and  May-like,  and  we 
found  it  pleasant  to  trudge  over  the  hills  together,  sing- 


M 

JOE    WILLIS.  15 


ing,  laughing,  or  shouting ;  and  we  had  almost  concluded 
to  winter  it  at  the  cabin,  and  wait  for  trout-fishing  in  the 
spring.  One  morning,  when  the  sky  was  uncommonly 
clear,  and  the  sun  almost  like  June,  we  left  the  cabin  for 
a  long  day's  tramping.  Our  rifles  had  been  carefully 
cleaned,  and  the  patches  cut  with  all  the  exactness  pos 
sible.  Somehow  we  had  a  fancy  that  the  day's  sport 
would  be  good.  The  dogs  seemed  to  feel  as  we  felt.  John 
was  a  noble  fellow.  Leo  was  a  large,  heavy-chested 
hound,  lithe  and  active,  while  he  was  strong  as  a  lion. 
They  stalked  behind  us,  occasionally  looking  at  one 
another,  and  at  times  lifting  their  heads  so  as  to  look 
into  our  eyes,  but  without  even  an  inquiring  look.  Their 
expression  seemed  to  be  one  of  perfect  readiness  for  any 
emergency.  It  was  nearly  noon.  We  had  thrown  our 
selves  down  on  a  pile  of  leaves  where  the  sun  was  shining 
pleasantly,  when  suddenly  Leo  raised  his  head  and  broke 
out  in  a  long  bay  that  was  as  strange  as  it  waa  startling. 
I  looked  at  him,  and  he  came  up  to  me,  crouched  at  my 
side,  and  laid  his  head  on  my  lap.  As  I  rested  on  my 
elbow,  my  face  was  turned  close  to  his.  He  looked  into 
my  eyes,  and  I  saw  that  something  was  ailing  the  dog. 
Again  he  raised  his  head,  and  commenced  a  low  whine, 
which  finally  broke  out  in  a  long,  clear,  musical  but 
mournful  baying,  that  made  the  forest  ring. 

The  next  instant  a  deer  dashed  across  the  open  hollow 
below.  He  was  a  fine  buck,  and  had  evidently  been 
startled  from  his  noon  rest  in  the  thicket.  He  took  to 
the  cover  again  the  instant  he  caught  sight  of  us,  and 


16  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    RIVER. 

breasted  the  hill  gallantly.  The  trees  were  nearly  leaf 
less,  quite  so  excepting  the  evergreens,  and  we  could  see 
him  for  a  hundred  jumps.  Suddenly  he  doubled  on  his 
track,  and  came  down  the  hill  again.  Leo,  whom  a  word 
from  Joe  had  kept  quiet,  now  watched  my  face  for  the 
signal  to  start. 

"Phil,  let  the  dogs  manage  him.  John  has  turned 
him  yonder,  I  think,  and  if  Leo  meets  him  in  the  hollow 
he  will  stand  fight." 

"  I  don't  like  to  risk  the  dog,  Joe.  I  wouldn't  have 
Leo  harmed  for  a  thousand  bucks  like  that." 

"  I'll  trust  him— I'll  trust  him.     On,  Leo  !" 

The  brave  dog  went  down  the  hill  like  lightning. 
The  deer  did  not  see  him  till  he  broke  from  the  cover, 
and  they  met  on  as  pretty  a  sward  as  a  knight  could 
have  asked  for  a  tourney.  It  was  a  round  grassy  basin, 
a  hundred  feet  across,  with  smooth  hard  turf,  surrounded 
by  forest  trees  and  a  thick  underbrush.  The  deer  came 
in  with  a  bound  over  the  low  ring  or  hedge  of  scrub-oak 
that  surrounded  the  basin,  and  suddenly  meeting  the  dog, 
turned  and  coursed  half  way  around  the  circle,  then 
dashed  into  tlie  centre,  and  turned  at  bay.  John  came 
in  at  this  instant.  They  were  in  a  position  for  a  picture 
then.  The  deer  standing  with  head  down,  his  nostrils 
close  to  the  grass,  his  keen  blue  eyes  flashing  like  fire,  his 
hair  bristling  on  the  ridge  of  his  back  like  a  hyena's ; 
the  one  dog,  Leo,  standing  quietly  as  if  looking  curiously 
at  the  spectacle — and  I  thought  his  head  was  canted  a 
little  on  one  side  with  a  quizzical  expression ;  the  other 


JOE    WILLIS, 


17 


crouching  low  on  the  ground,  his  feet  planted  out  on  each 
side  of  him,  his  broad  chest  expanded,  his  eye  like  a 
snake's,  watching  every  motion  of  the  game,  his  head 
slanting  upward,  and  his  whole  body  indicating  that  every 
muscle  was  ready  for  the  fight. 

The  next  instant  the  deer  made  a  long  bound ;  his  feet 
planted  close  together  came  down  with  a  force  that  would 
have  cut  John  through  and  through,  if  he  had  not  met 
the  plunge  with  a  dash  at  the  ear  of  the  buck,  which  he 
tore  to  ribbons.  Leo  had  not  moved  an  inch,  but  looked 
on  as  a  cool  spectator,  and  as  the  deer  turned  he  saw 
John  crouching  close  by  Leo's  side,  waiting  him  as  be 
fore.  But  now  the  attack  was  made  on  the  other  side. 
Before  the  buck  well  understood  the  new  state  of  affairs, 
Leo's  teeth  were  in  his  throat,  and  John  seizing  him  by 
the  lips  dragged  him  down.  Now  followed  the  worst  of 
the  battle.  A  deer's  strength  is  all  in  his  legs,  and  when 
down  he  uses  them  madly.  I  once  took  a  deer  by  the 
head,  with  my  knee  on  his  neck ;  but  before  I  had  time 
to  think,  much  less  to  act,  he  planted  his  two  hind  feet 
on  my  breast,  and  sent  me  flying  a  rod  into  a  heap  of  brush. 

They  rolled  over  and  over  and  over.  Now  the  deer 
was  nearly  on  his  feet,  and  now  the  dogs  were  on  him, 
but  they  never  loosened  their  hold.  Once  he  sprang  up, 
and  they  both  swung  clear  of  the  ground,  but  they 
brought  him  instantly  down  again.  I  could  stand  it  no 
longer.  Even  Joe  began  to  feel  uneasy.  I  stepped  for 
ward  to  a  rock  from  which  I  could  command  the  scene, 
now  about  a  hundred  and  twenty  yards  distant,  and 


18  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    KIVEK. 

shouted  to  the  dogs.  They  instantly  let  him  up.  With 
a  wild  bound,  (frightened  at  the  sound  of  a  human  voice,) 
he  sprang  for  the  cover ;  but  my  bullet  was  swifter,  and 
stopped  him  on  the  edge  of  the  basin. 

The  battle  over,  Leo  relapsed  into  his  usual  calm  and 
dignified  condition,  looking  complacently  on,  while  John 
had  his  nose  in  the  bloody  heart  of  the  deer,  which  I  had 
thrown  to  him ;  but  when  I  had  bent  down  a  sapling,  and 
fastened  the  saddle  of  venison  to  it,  and  let  it  swing  up 
again,  and  was  slowly  walking  up  the  hill,  Leo  ap 
proached  me,  and  touching  my  hand  with  his  cold  nose, 
again  gave  voice  to  one  of  the  most  melancholy  wails 
that  I  have  ever  heard. 

And  now  I  must  pause  to  relate  what  perhaps  I  should 
have  stated  before.  Leo  was  given  to  me  some  years 
previously  by  a  friend,  whom  I  valued  highly,  and  who 
valued  me  so  much  as  to  give  me  one  of  the  two  young 
dogs  which  he  had  received  from  England. 

At  a  short  distance  from  my  own  home  was  the  resi 
dence  of  Joe  Willis,  who  was  the  ward  of  Judge  Willis, 
a  distant  relative  of  his  father,  and  a  man  of  some  note 
in  the  county.  With  him  Joe  had  lived  from  mere 
childhood  until  he  attained  his  majority,  and  succeeded 
to  the  large  estates  left  him  by  his  father.  Nor  did  his 
manner  of  life  change  at  all  then ;  and  I  shall  not  have 
to  explain  why  he  remained  a  resident  of  the  old  hall  for 
a  year  longer,  and  why,  at  the  date  of  which  I  now  speak, 
it  was  still  his  home.  Judge  Willis  had  but  two  chil 
dren  living,  his  daughters  Ellen  and  Lucy. 


JOE    WILLIS. 


19 


Our  families  were  on  such  terms  as  country  neighbors 
are  apt  to  be  on,  and  Leo  was  as  much  at  home  in  the 
one  house  as  in  the  other.  Perhaps  I  should  say  he  was 
more  at  home  in  Judge  Willis's  house  than  in  our  own, 
for  he  never  ventured  beyond  the  large  hall  and  my 
rooms  in  the  one,  except  by  special  permission,  while  at 
the  other  he  was  welcome  from  kitchen  to  garret.  I  did 
not  part  with  my  title  to  the  dog,  but  it  was  now  mani 
fest  that  I  was  not  half  so  much  his  master  as  Ellen 
Willis  was  his  mistress.  It  was  a  rare  sight  to  see  them 
together — she  a  fragile,  fairy  girl  of  eighteen,  and  he  a 
gaunt,  strong  hound,  standing  always  close  by  her,  or 
yielding  his  head  nobly  to  her  caresses. 

She  was  of  the  mould  of  heaven,  which  some  (and  I 
sometimes,  since  she  left  us)  have  fancied  has  been  broken. 
Light  and  graceful  as  a  dream  when  she  moved  across 
the  room  or  the  lawn,  she  was  still  more  like  a  dream 
when  she  sat  thoughtfully  at  her  window,  crowned  a 
queen  and  an  angel  by  her  golden  hair.  Her  eye  was 
blue,  not  with  the  lustre  of  the  sky,  but  that  soft  shade 
which  the  distant  sea  has  of  a  summer  evening  just  be 
fore  sunset.  Oh,  what  an  ocean  lay  in  those  blue  depths ! 
— of  purity,  of  faith,  of  hope,  of  love,  pure  holy  woman- 
love  !  Her  lips  were  chiselled  as  Eve's  must  have  been, 
or  better  if  that  might  be  ;  for  Eve's  had  the  passion  on 
them  which  tasted  the  forbidden  fruit,  but  her's  had  only 
the  imprint  of  the  sounds  of  Eden  on  their  delicate  lines, 
and  were  fit  to  talk  with  angels  and  with  God. 

Two  years  more  made  her  a  woman;  but  I  do  not 


20  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    RIVER. 

think  any  of  us  expected  she  would  stay  long  among  us. 
She  never  left  home,  never  visited  in  the  village,  but 
lived  within  the  little  circle  of  the  two  families,  and  made 
pets  of  all  of  us,  and  familiars  of  her  gallant  horse  and 
my  noble  dog.  Her  father  loved  her  better  than  all  the 
world,  and  Joe — I  will  not  speak  of  him. 

And  now  to  return  to  the  forest.  That  wail  of  Leo's 
went  through  me.  I  have  always  had  faith  in  dogs. 

"  Joe,  what's  the  matter  with  that  dog  ?" 

Joe  was  pale  and  silent.  He  thought  as  I  did.  Our 
last  letters  had  spoken  doubtingly  of  the  health  of  Ellen, 
and  we  connected  her  brave  guardian's  distress  with 
those  letters.  The  day's  sport  proved  good,  and  we 
reached  the  cabin  just  at  dusk.  We  had  scarcely  seated 
ourselves  at  Black's  table,  when  a  shout  was  heard  on 
the  other  side  of  the  river,  answered  instantly  by  another 
long  wail  from  the  dog.  I  grew  pale,  and  trembled  as  I 
went  to  the  door.  Joe  was  speechless,  and  we  entered 
the  canoe  together  and  pushed  across  the  river.  As  we 
neared  the  shore  we  saw  two  men  standing  on  the  bank, 
one  of  whom  was  Anthony,  a  favorite  family  servant, 
who  advanced  to  the  water's  edge,  and  touching  his  hat 
in  reply  to  my  quick  demand  for  his  news,  said  simply, 
"  Letters  for  Mr.  Joseph,  sir,"  and  handed  him  a  pack 
age.  He  tore  off  the  envelope,  tossed  me  a  couple,  which 
by  the  dim  light  he  could  see  were  for  me,  and  springing 
into  the  canoe,  hurried  Anthony  and  his  companion  in 
also,  and  pushed  across  the  river. 

The  conclusion  of  my  letter  contains  the  whole  story. 


JOE    WILLIS.  21 

"  She  cannot  live  a  week,  the  doctor  says.  You  will 
come  instantly.  The  horses  will  be  sent  out  for  you. 
Ride  day  and  night.  Joe  will  need  no  such  directions." 

Anthony  had  brought  our  horses.  They  were  at  the 
bridge,  and  he  had  pfocured  a  hunter  to  guide  him  to  the 
cabin.  In  five  minutes  we  were  all  in  the  long  canoe. 
Joe,  Black,  and  myself,  each  had  a  paddle,  and  Anthony 
and  his  man  and  Leo  lay  in  the  bottom.  The  river  was 
swollen,  for  the  warm  weather  had  melted  the  snow  in 
the  up-country,  and  as  we  pushed  out  into  the  stream, 
the  current  took  her  prow  around  with  the  speed  of 
thought,  and  we  shot  swiftly  down  the  lower  rapids. 

I  cannot  forget  that  night.  The  stars  were  above  me, 
calm,  clear,  and  companionable,  as  they  had  been  and 
have  been  a  thousand  times  in  scenes  of  joy  and  sadness. 
Call  it  romance,  as  you  will,  but  I  love  and  worship 
them,  and  they  are  to  me  the  torches  which  the  holy 
dead  (dead  in  fact,  or  dead  because  epitaphed  in  mem 
ories)  hold  over  the  path  I  have  trod  and  am  treading. 

There  was  no  sound  of  life  on  the  banks  of  the  river. 
All  was  profound  silence,  broken  only  by  the  dip  of  the 
paddles,  or  the  gush  of  the  stream  along  the  rocky  shores. 
None  of  us  uttered  a  word.  For  an  hour  we  flew  down 
the  stream.  We  reached  the  Black  Rapid,  than  which 
none  on  the  river  was  more  dangerous.  I  was  forward, 
guiding  our  course.  The  flat  rock  was  out  of  sight,  only 
the  obelisk  (as  Joe  had  named  it)  was  visible.  The  best 
pass  was  to  the  left  of  one  and  to  the  right  of  the  other. 
They  were  not  fifty  feet  apart,  the  obelisk  being  the 


22  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY   THE    RIVER. 

lower.  I  braced  myself,  and  taking  firm  hold  of  my 
paddle  threw  her  a  little  over  to  the  left  bank.  ("  Star 
board  a  little,"  would  have  been  the  direction  to  a  man 
at  the  tiller,  had  we  been  in  salt  water ;  but  this  was 
fresh,  and  we  steered  without  a  rudder.)  Black  and  Joe 
stood  with  paddles  raised,  watching  the  current  and  our 
course.  The  lightest  touch  possible  in  the  water  kept 
her  steady,  and  she  shot  down  the  boiling  surface  of  the 
stream,  with  her  head  direct  for  the  tall  black  rock,  as 
if  she  were  seeking  destruction.  Steady  so  for  a  mo 
ment  longer; — we  shot  by  the  flat  rock,  every  paddle 
struck  the  water  at  the  same  instant,  and  she  sprang 
suddenly  to  the  right,  and  flew  by  the  ghostly-looking 
pillar  of  stone,  down  the  last  slope  of  the  rapids,  and 
slowly  floated  out  into  the  frothy  basin,  on  the  opposite 
side  of  which  the  horses  were  awaiting  us. 

Joe's  black  horse,  Zephyr — black  as  night — stood  paw 
ing  the  ground  under  an  oak  tree,  impatient  to  be  away. 
My  own  dark  bay,  the  pride  of  the  county  for  his  mag 
nificent  limbs  and  neck,  and  his  small  but  beautiful  head, 
stood  like  a  statue,  looking  toward  the  shore  as  we 
stepped  from  the  canoe ;  but  as  I  came  up  toward  him,  he 
greeted  me  with  a  loud  and  glad  neigh,  shaking  his  mane 
at  the  same  time,  and  stretching  out  his  head  to  my 
shoulder  as  familiarly  as  any  good  and  true  friend  might. 
Leo  sprang  toward  the  horses  with  a  yelp  of  delight ;  and 
the  instant  that  I  cast  loose  the  ropes  by  which  Anthony 
had  left  them  fastened,  and  had  taken  off  their  blankets, 
the  three,  horses  and  dog,  commenced  a  series  of  steps 


JOE    WILLIS.  23 

not  laid  down  in  any  of  the  books  on  dancing ;  but  which 
indicated,  at  least,  the  great  flexibility  of  their  limbs,  and 
their  keen  pleasure  at  a  meeting  which  was  manifestly 
unexpected.  For  a  moment  we  forgot  the  overpowering 
sadness  which  oppressed  us,  and  almost  smiled  at  the 
happiness  of  our  noble  animals.  I  could  write  reams  of 
paper  to  tell  of  the  long  and  adventurous  journeys  we 
had  all  made  together — dog,  horses  and  masters — or  of 
the  pleasant  sunny  (and  moonshiny)  canters,  when  the 
horses  bore  graceful  forms,  of  which  they  well  knew  the 
value,  and  with  which  they  stepped  as  daintily  and  gently 
as  ever  lady's  palfrey;  of  breasting  at  midnight  the 
wild  torrents  of  Western  rivers,  or  swimming  in  pleasant 
summer  days  side  by  side  in  the  broad,  calm  Hudson. 
Those  who  have  owned  such  treasures  will  not  marvel 
that  we  became  attached  to  them  as  to  our  best  friends, 
and  it  needed  none  of  all  these  to  make  me  value  my 
bay;  for  he,  like  Leo,  was  a  favorite  of  Ellen,  and  when 
I  was  away,  was  always  kept  in  the  Judge's  stable. 

A  low  whistle  brought  him  to  my  side  instantly,  and 
he  threw  up  his  head  and  reached  out  a  fore-foot  to  me — 
a  fancy  of  Ellen's  teaching.  I  patted  his  fine  neck,  and 
threw  on  the  bridle.  I  rode  then  always  without  saddle, 
having  a  broad  girth  strap  around  him,  and  a  soft  fox 
skin  thrown  across  his  back.  I  was  younger  and  more 
lithe  and  active  then,  and  I  eschewed  stirrups  as  bother 
some  and  ungraceful. 

There  was  a  little  hand  strap  on  the  side  of  the  girth, 
which  I  sometimes  took  hold  of,  and  then  rode  half  lying 


24  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    RIVEK. 

down.  At  times  I  rode  slowly  for  hours  in  that  way, 
when  travelling.  But  speed  was  now  the  object.  Willis 
was  on  his  horse.  He  rode  as  I,  except  that  he  had  light 
stirrups  and  a  black  cloth  seat.  Anthony  had  our  traps 
in  the  wagon ;  and  with  a  parting  shake  of  Black's  hand, 
I  sprang  into  my  seat,  and  we  were  off.  As  we  dashed 
out  of  the  wood  into  the  road,  I  looked  back.  Black 
stood  motionless,  gazing  after  us ;  but  as  we  swept  out  of 
sight,  I  saw  him  raise  the  worn  cuff  of  his  plaid  hunting 
coat  to  his  eyes.  Poor  fellow !  He  had  learned  from 
our  stories  by  the  cabin  fire,  to  love  the  gentle  girl  he 
had  never  seen,  and  whose  grave  he  supposed  we  should 
find  fresh  sodded. 

I  need  not  describe  the  rest  of  that  night's  adventure 
Had  you  seen  us  pass  your  own  house  in  the  wilderness, 
as  we  passed  the  cabins  along  that  half-beaten  track,  you 
would  have  shuddered  all  night,  or  dreamed  over  all  the 
old  stories  you  have  heard  of  the  wild  huntsman.  Zephyr 
did  not  flag  a  step,  nor  did  the  bay  horse  falter  an  in 
stant.  We  paused  once  or  twice  by  streams  to  dash 
some  water  over  their  limbs  and  cool  their  mouths ;  and 
after  a  moment's  rest,  flew  on  and  on  again,  until  the  for 
est  began  to  grow  thinner,  and  occasional  frame  houses 
indicated  the  advance  of  comparative  civilization.  Anon 
we  saw  lights  in  the  houses,  as  the  farmers  were  rising  to 
commence  their  early  morning  work ;  and  at  length  a  dull 
gray  light  dawned  in  the  East,  and  day  approached.  It 
came  heavily,  and  oppressed  us,  as  the  breaking  day 
always  brings  oppression  to  the  sad.  It  seems  always  to 


JOE    WILLIS.  25 

lend  new  pangs  to  pain,  to  add  severity  to  grief.  I  don't 
know  the  philosophy  of  it ;  but  I  have  thought  it  might 
be,  that  we  are  so  accustomed  to  wake  to  life  and  strength 
and  hope,  that  when  we  welcome  the  morning  only  to 
shine  on  our  crushed  happiness,  we  by  the  contrast  jfeel 
more  bitterly  our  sorrow.  Not  one  word  all  that  long 
night  had  my  friend  spoken.  Lifting  his  black  horse 
steadily  with  firm  grasp  on  his  rein,  and  looking  intently 
forward,  we  had  pressed  on  in  silence,  each  knowing  that 
the  other  had  thoughts  too  sacred  to  commit  to  words. 

But  as  the  sun  came  up  in  the  sky,  I  turned  to  look  at 
him.  His  features  were  calm  and  pale,  his  lips  com 
pressed,  his  whole  air  that  of  a  man  standing  erect  under 
a  weight  that  would  have  crushed  one  of  less  gigantic 
power.  He  caught  my  eye,  and  a  soft  sad  smile  stole 
over  his  face,  as  he  spoke.  His  voice  was  clear,  not 
tremulous,  but  musical  though  low,  and  you  could  not 
say  whether  it  was  very  cheerful  or  very  sad. 

"  Phil,  she  is  dead.  She  has  died  while  we  were  on 
the  road  to-night." 

I  looked  at  him  without  reply.  I  could  not  speak,  but 
I  believe  I  gave  utterance  to  some  ejaculation  of  an 
guish,  at  which  he  smiled  again,  and  now  spoke  in  tones 
of  comfort  and  cheer  that  reached  my  heart  through 
thick  folds  of  grief  and  rebellion ;  but  as  he  finished  a 
sentence  of  most  cheerful  words,  Leo,  who  had  kept  even 
pace  with  us  all  night,  again  gave  voice  to  one  of  those 
long  wails,  and  Joe  suddenly  dropped  his  head  on  his 
breast,  and  was  again  silent. 
2 


26  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    RIVER. 

We  bad  now  reached  the  country  of  bad  roads.  Civ 
ilization  in  the  shape  of  farm  wagons  and  ox  carts  had 
cut  up  the  track,  and  it  was  frozen  in  deep  ruts,  so  that 
we  could  only  walk  our  horses.  But  I  spare  you  any 
farther  recital  of  our  journey.  In  less  than  four  days  we 
had  reached  the  bank  of  the  river,  and  we  then  took  to 
the  smooth  ice,  and  in  six  hours  were  at  home. 

Our  horses  appreciated  our  haste,  and  seemed  to  un 
derstand  it.  They  strained  every  nerve.  The  ice  was 
broken  in  shore  by  the  ebb  and  flow  of  the  tide.  Zephyr 
cleared  the  open  space  at  a  flying  leap,  and  the  bay  fol 
lowed  in  as  gallant  style.  I  shouted  to  Joe  to  take  the 
little  river  hedge,  and  not  go  around  to  the  park  gate. 
We  went  side  by  side  over  the  hawthorn,  cantered  up  the 
lawn,  and  sprang  from  our  horses  at  the  front  of  the  long 
piazza. 

Anxious  eyes  had  watched  for  us  on  the  river,  and  we 
had  been  recognized  half  an  hour  before.  As  we  threw 
the  reins  on  the  necks  of  our  horses,  the  door  opened,  and 
the  old  Judge  stood  awaiting  us,  with  his  finger  pressed 
on  his  lip,  as  if  to  command  our  silence. 

But  she  was  not  yet  gone !  Thanks  evermore  for  that, 
that  my  friend  was  there  in  time  to  hear  her  latest  words 
and  blessings. 

A  week  flew  by.  It  was  the  evening  of  a  glorious  day 
when  I  entered  the  old  hall  and  passed  unchallenged  by 
servant  or  friend,  to  the  very  chamber  door  of  the  dying  girl. 
The  scene  in  the  room  was  startling.  Joe  was  bending 
over  the  couch  in  a  passionate  attitude.  She  was  dead ! 


JOE    WILLIS.  27 

In  vain  did  he  lift  her  hand  to  his  heart,  in  vain  press 
his  lips  to  hers,  in  vain  speak  in  that  low  deep  tone  of 
fondness  and  of  earnestness  which,  if  aught  can,  will 
always  prevail  to  wake  a  sleeper.  He  did  not  call  aloud, 
for  he  seemed  to  fancy  she  was  indeed  only  slumbering, 
and  he  might  frighten  her  5  so  natural  is  it  to  imagine 
that  the  dead  cannot  be  dead.  She  was  marvellously 
beautiful  as  she  lay  there,  and  her  lips  were  pressed  to 
gether  closely  in  an  expression  of  determination,  which, 
united  with  the  loving  smile  on  her  face,  seemed  to  say 
to  him,  "  I  will  love  you,  Joe,  through  life,  through 
death;"  and  if  she  was  thinking  thus,  how  could  she  be 
dead  ?  But  she  was  dead ;  and  it  was  thus  that  she  died. 

The  windows  were  covered  with  the  folds  of  gorgeous 
curtains,  on  which,  through  the  shutter  bars,  stole  the 
last  beams  of  the  setting  sun,  crimsoning  the  dim  light 
in  the  dying  girl's  room,  and  shedding  on  her  cheek  a 
glow  of  exquisite  beauty. 

The  fire  in  the  broad  grate  was  burning  slowly,  each 
coal  covered  with  a  coat  of  ashes;  but  the  room  was 
warm,  and  a  fragrance  of  some  aromatic  drink  filled  it. 
In  the  south  window,  behind  the  curtain,  stood  her  sis 
ter,  a  girl  of  sixteen,  springing  up  into  lovely  womanhood. 
Poor  Lucy !  She  was  sobbing  all  to  herself,  and  not  a 
soul  in  the  room  knew  that  the  curtain  was  so  often 
shaken  by  the  emotions  of  that  young  and  almost  break 
ing  heart ! 

On  one  side  of  the  bed  sat  her  father,  bending  eagerly 
forward  to  catch  every  word  she  spoke.  Oh,  did  we  but 


28  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    RIVER. 

• 

listen  thus  all  life  long  to  the  words  of  voices  that  we 
love,  as  we  listen  eagerly  for  every  syllable  when  the 
voices  grow  fainter  toward  the  hushing,  how  many  mourn 
ings  would  we  save ! 

On  the  bed  sat  her  mother,  with  one  hand  holding  the 
right  hand  of  her  daughter,  with  whom  she  was  convers 
ing.  On  the  other  side  of  the  bed  stood  Willis.  He 
was  then  but  twenty-two  years  of  age,  about  five  feet  ten 
inches  high,  and  his  broad,  massive  chest  indicated  his 
great  strength.  His  face  was  not  beautiful ;  but  as  you 
examined  it,  its  striking  mould  won  your  admiration,  un 
til  you  could  but  do  homage  to  the  perfection  of  manli 
ness  which  was  in  it.  The  forehead  was  heavy  and 
broad,  but  very  clear  and  white ;  and  the  eye  under  it 
reposed,  as  if  content  with  such  gu'ard.  But  as  you 
looked  into  that  eye,  you  saw  there  all  the  life  of  a  clear 
intellect,  a  quick  but  deliberate  habit  of  thought,  and  un 
bounded  affections. 

Now  he  gazed  with  mournful  earnestness  into  the  eyes 
of  Ellen  Willis,  and  watched  each  thought  through  those 
windows  of  her  soul.  At  length  she  turned  to  him  and 
spoke.  "  Joe  I  am  dying  now.  I  shall  not  live  an  hour 
—call  Lucy." 

"  You  mistake  surely,  Ellen.  You  have  no  need  to 
fear  death  now.  The  doctor  says  you  will  live  till 
spring." 

"  No,  no,  Joe  dear,  the  doctor  knows  nothing  at  all 
about  it.  I  have  that  within  me  now  which  warns  me 
that  I  must  count  time  by  seconds.  It  is  strange,  I 


JOE    WILLIS.  29 

can't  explain  it,  but  I  feel  that  life  is  separating  even 
now  from  this  dear  body.  Oh,  Joe,  how  well  I  have 
loved  the  earth !  Sometimes  I  fancied  that  its  flowers 
grew  dim-colored  and  were  no  longer  fragrant,  and  the 
hills  were  not  green,  and  the  valleys  did  not  smile,  and  I 
could  then  have  died  and  left  them  all  most  willingly. 
But  now  I  cling  to  the  dear  earth  with  all  a  mortal's 
fondness.  I  have  often  loved  to  think  that  somewhere 
in  this  world,  borne  on  the  winds,  or  treasured  in  some 
happy  valley,  by  the  border  of  a  mountain  stream,  or 
mayhap  giving  life  to  the  flowers  down  in  the  glen,  (our 
glen,  Joe,)  sleeps  dust  that  was  once  the  prison  of  the 
Son  of  God !  Think  you  he  carried  it  away  from  us 
when  he  ascended  ?" 

"  I  think  not,"  said  Willis ;  "  I  think  that  all  that  was 
material  of  that  body  remains  with  us  somewhere,  scattered 
perhaps,  but  sanctifying  the  earth ;  and  when  I  think  of 
this,  I  love  the  earth  far  better  than  before." 

"  Just  so,  dear  Joe — just  so  I  think.  I  used  to  wish 
I  might  die  far  at  the  eastward.  I  would  love  to  die  on 
some  hill  of  Lebanon.  Not  in  Palestine,  for  the  foot  of 
the  unbeliever  still  defiles  the  land  once  sanctified  by  the 
Saviour's  footsteps.  But  to  lie  down  on  some  high  peak 
of  those  old  hills,  in  body  as  in  spirit,  close  to  the  en 
trance  of  the  Promised  Land,  where  my  brow  might  grow 
cool  with  the  dews  of  Hermon,  and  the  soft  south  wind 
would  come  up  to  me  with  the  music  of  Gennesaret ;  oh, 
that  would  be  pleasant !  How  pleasant  to  see,  in  the 
far  distant  south,  the  blue  beauty  of  Galilee !  But  I 


30  THE    OLD    HOUSE   BY   THE    RIVER. 

would  be  buried  here,  in  my  own  land.  For,  Joe,  I 
have  had  a  fancy  that  the  dust  of  our  Lord's  body  was 
carried  on  the  winds  very  far  from  Jerusalem,  and  that 
in  this  distant  land  I  should  be  more  likely  to  rest  in 
Him  and  with  Him  than  there.  And  then  with  you, 
Joe  !  Oh,  we  will  sleep  together — I  know,  my  love,  it 
matters  nothing  where  we  lay  these  chains  when  we  have 
done  with  them,  but  I  have  a  wish  to  wake  and  see  you 
first  in  the  morning." 

She  paused ;  and  they  were  weeping  all  of  them  :  for 
the  music  of  her  voice  was  thrilling,  and  those  tones, 
low,  earnest,  cheerful,  surpassed  all  description  of  melody. 
So  she  spoke  again,  but  now  in  lower  tones,  and  some 
what  broken.  She  murmured  her  farewell  in  a  few  faint 
words.  An  hour  passed,  and  she  spoke  then  as  if  her 
mind  were  wandering. 

"  I  feel  strange  breathing  on  my  forehead,  as  if  I  were 
on  Lebanon,  but  the  wind  is  cold.  Joe,  darling,  kiss  my 
forehead — ah,  there  is  warmth  in  that ! — earthly  love  is 
warm — mother,  is  this  your  hand ;  where's  father  ? — 
Lucy,  how  beautiful  you  are  ! — my  eyes  are  dimming — 
I  told  you  I  was  dying,  Joe.  Lift  me  in  your  arms." 

He  lifted  her  to  his  breast,  and  as  she  nestled  her 
cheek  in  his  bosom  with  a  trusting  smile,  the  spirit  left 
the  clay  to  repose  in  the  love  that  it  knew  was  eternal ! 

It  was  at  this  moment  that  I  advanced  into  the  room. 
He  gently  unfolded  his  arms  from  around  her,  and  sank 
on  his  knees  by  the  bedside.  I  knelt  by  him,  with  my 
right  arm  thrown  over  him,  and  looked  into  her  face. 


JOE    WILLIS.  31 

She  lay  on  a  low  couch,  appearing  much  as  in  life,  with 
her  eyes  closed,  and  her  lips  a  very  little  parted,  as  if 
she  were  about  to  speak.  There  was  no  smile  on  her 
face,  no  expression  that  could  be  taken  at  the  first 
glance ;  but  when  you  looked  again  and  again,  when  you 
studied  the  beauty  of  that  most  heavenly  countenance, 
you  began  to  perceive  what  was  meant  when  the  face  of 
one  was  spoken  of  as  being  "as  it  had  been  the  face  of 
an  angel."  Beyond  all  reach  of  human  care,  sorrow, 
doubt,  or  suffering,  beyond  all  disturbance  from  earthly 
discord,  beyond  all  darkness,  all  clouds,  all  stars,  she  had 
passed  into  the  presence  of  her  God.  Before  she  left 
the  earth  she  had  felt  on  her  brow  the  spray  of  the  river 
of  the  water  of  life,  had  heard  the  music  of  the  leaves 
that  fell  in  its  pure  stream  from  the  trees  on  its  banks, 
and  why  or  how  could  her  features  express  any  emotion 
that  could  be  interpreted  by  those  she  left  here  ?  All 
her  life  long  she  had  been  nearer  heaven  than  any  of 
us,  and  had  heard  and  felt  the  softness  and  the  balmy 
sweetness  of  the  winds  that  blow  over  its  hills.  And 
now  as  we  saw  a  tress  of  golden  hair  waved  over  her 
forehead  by  a  passing  breath  of  air,  we  knew  well  that 
those  breezes  were  fanning  her  brow,  and  so  we  were 
comforted. 

I  have  said  her  soul  was  an  ocean  of  purity  and  love. 
That  was  an  earthly  metaphor.  Somewhere  in  holy  writ 
there  is  a  promise  like  this,  "  There  shall  be  no  more 
sea."  Her  great,  broad  soul  was  moved  no  longer  by 
changing  moons,  or  those  deep  hidden  currents  that  stir 


32  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    RIVER. 

human  life  from  its  lowest  depths.  Calm,  like  the  peace 
of  God,  lay  on  her  forehead,  and  we  knew  that  calm  had 
forever  settled  on  her  soul. 

I  rose  from  my  place  by  her  side,  and  left  Willis  still 
kneeling.  As  I  turned  away  I  saw  Leo.  He  had  en 
tered  and  lay  now  at  the  foot  of  the  couch,  his  head 
raised,  and  his  fine  eye  fixed  on  mine.  I  do  not  know 
that  he  meant  it,  but  I  interpreted  the  look  as  asking 
permission  to  see  her.  I  nodded,  and  he  came  slowly 
toward  the  bed-side.  He  was  tall  enough  to  see  her  as 
he  stood  there ;  but  with  my  permission  he  placed  his 
fore  paws  on  the  side  of  the  couch,  and  looked  fixedly  at 
her  face  for  the  space  of  two  or  three  minutes.  He  then 
returned  to  his  position  at  the  foot,  and  stretching  him 
self  on  the  carpet,  followed  every  movement  in  the  room 
with  his  eyes,  but  did  not  leave  his  watch  until  she  was 
carried  out  forever. 

We  buried  her.  She  had  asked  to  be  laid  in  the  north 
graveyard,  by  a  sister  who  had  died  five  years  before. 
We  carried  her  into  the  old  church,  and  for  awhile  rested 
her  coffin  under  the  pulpit,  while  the  choir  sang  a  hymn 
of  rest.  It  went  up  peacefully  in  the  little  church,  but 
she  heard  it  not;  and  as  they  sang  the  last  verse  I 
heard  one  voice  in  the  choir  grow  tremulous,  and  then 
cease  suddenly,  and  at  length  a  low,  suppressed  sob  called 
my  attention,  and  I  turned  and  saw  one  who  had  loved 
her  since  they  prattled  their  first  words  together  in  the 
bright  days  of  infancy. 

It  grew  late,  later  than  we  had  thought,  and  the  cler- 


JOE    WILLIS.  33 

gyman  spoke  briefly  and  eloquently,  and  then  we  carried 
her  to  the  graveyard.  Down  the  long  street  through 
which  I  had  often  walked,  holding  her  little  hand,  I 
followed  her  now  to  the  hill  where  the  village  dead  are 
resting.  How  desolate  the  scenes  of  life  appear  when 
we  follow  the  dead  past  them  ! 

Twilight  was  passed,  and  the  stars  were  out  when  we 
reached  the  grave.  It  was  dark  and  forbidding,  and  my 
hand  trembled  as  I  held  the  cord  and  slowly  let  her 
down  into  the  gloom.  But  as  I  heard  the  coffin  touch 
that  of  her  sister,  by  whom  she  was  laid,  I  felt  that  she 
was  not  alone,  and  thanked  God  that  at  length  the 
weary  one  was  at  rest. 

Then  the  earth  was  thrown  in.  Lightly  at  first,  so 
that  that  saddest  of  all  earthly  sounds  might  not  fall 
harshly  on  the  mourners'  ears.  The  stars  were  shining 
before  this  solemn  work  began.  They  looked  down  on 
the  coffin  in  its  lowly  place,  and  their  beams  disputed 
each  inch  of  depth  as  the  earth  was  heaped  on  it,  as  if 
they  longed  to  rest  there  with  the  holy  sleeper.  Strug 
gling  to  reach  her  they  peered  into  each  crevice,  and 
every  mass  of  earth  appeared  to  frighten  and  scatter  a 
host  of  holy  ones  that  were  down  in  the  grave  with  our 
angel  lost  one.  Driven  back  at  length  to  the  surface, 
when  the  sod  was  laid  on  the  mound,  they  rested  among 
the  blades  of  grass  quietly  and  peacefully.  There  they 
will  rest,  keeping  loving  watch  above  her  till  the  years  of 
sleeping  are  ended.  Father  and  mother  have  been  laid 
beside  her,  and  the  moss  has  grown  over  the  crumbling 
2* 


34  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    RIVER. 

head-stone — but  the  heavenly  watchers  have  come  back 
nightly,  and  when  the  last  mourner  shall  have  ceased  to 
mourn,  will  not  forget  their  priceless  charge. 

She  sleeps  from  sorrow.  The  glorious  hair  that  waved 
in  the  mountain  wind,  lies  waveless  now  where  wind  may 
never  reach  it.  The  lip  has  forgotten  its  melody,  the 
eloquent  lip  has  forgotten  its  words  of  love !  Her  eye  is 
dim,  the  glad  eye  that  answered  ours  so  often,  and  so 
gaily,  and  so  lovingly;  and  the  heart  that  beat  once 
wildly  with  the  joys  of  life-loving  youth,  now  rests  in 
dust.  In  the  ocean  of  our  lives  there  is  an  island,  on 
whose  shores  the  waves  of  memory  break  with  heavy  roar  ! 

Four  years  passed  swiftly  after  that,  and  Leo  was  our 
constant  companion,  the  hero  of  a  hundred  days. 

He  died  one  pleasant  Sunday  morning  in  summer,  and 
we  buried  him  with  not  a  little  grief.  We  dug  his  grave 
across  the  foot  of  the  grave  of  his  gentle  mistress ;  and 
somehow  I  always  feel  easier  about  her  being  out  in  the 
long  stormy  nights  in  autumn  and  winter,  lying  there  in 
the  church-yard,  since  her  brave  guardian  took  his  old 
place  at  her  feet. 

It  was  thus  that  Willis  became  the  bachelor  he  now  is. 
From  the  day  that  we  stood  together  by  the  grave  of 
Ellen  Willis,  a  closer  bond  than  ever  before  has  held  us 
together,  and  we  have  lived  more  and  more  for  each 
other,  and  less  and  less  for  the  world  that  surrounds  us. 
My  own  old  home  has  given  place  to  a  comparatively 
modern  house,  which  has  none  of  the  attractions  to  me 
that  the  old  place  had. 


JOE    WILLIS.  35 

Years  ago  the  spring-flowers  bloomed  that  Lucy  plant 
ed  on  her  sister's  grave,  and  more  winters  have  shed 
snow  on  it  than  I  would  dare  to  confess  have  shed  their 
frosts  on  my  head,  but  Willis  has  by  no  means  forgotten 
one  particle  of  his  love  for  her.  He  is  rich  as  we  count 
this  world's  riches,  and  Lucy,  whom  he  in  some  sort 
adopted,  owes  to  him  a  princely  fortune  which  she  be 
stowed  on  a  worthy  husband. 

And  Willis  is  rich  in  affection.  Not  alone  in  the  love 
of  a  friend,  and  of  Lucy  and  her  bright-eyed  boy,  but  in 
the  waiting,  watching  love  of  Ellen  Willis.  Beyond  the 
river  they  will  be  happy. 

Sometimes  in  the  night,  seated  by  our  cabin  fire,  we  talk 
of  her ;  and  we  always  speak  low,  and  as  gently  as  we 
can,  for  we  know  she  hears  us.  Sometimes  Willis  turns 
restlessly  on  his  bear-skin  and  speaks  in  his  sleep.  But 
his  murmurs  are  indistinct,  and  yet  I  once  heard  him 
murmur  as  if  she  were  talking  to  him. 

When  her  father  died  he  left  his  house  to  Joe,  and  di 
vided  his  vast  fortune  between  his  wife  and  Lucy.  But 
by  some  mismanagement  Lucy's  share  was  lost  almost 
entirely,  and  Willis  supplied  it  from  his  own  full  coffers. 
He  lives  now  most  of  the  time  in  the  old  house,  and  I 
pass  much  of  my  life  with  him.  A  suite  of  rooms  ap 
propriated  to  my  use  has  always  been  my  favorite  resting 
place  when  I  am  not  at  my  own  house,  which,  to  say  truth, 
I  like  so  little  that  I  am  here  four-fifths  of  the  time.  He 
occupies  the  room  in  which  she  died.  The  same  rich 
curtains,  scarcely  at  all  faded,  hang  over  the  windows. 


II. 


urs  flit. 


WHILE  we  are  at  the  Hall  we  have  plenty  of  occupa 
tion  in  looking  after  the  tenantry  of  Joe's  lands, 
and  my  own,  which  join  his  on  the  north.  Many  of  the 
farms  are  occupied  by  families  that  have  been  born,  as 
their  fathers  were,  in  the  houses  they  now  dwell  in ;  and 
not  a  few  of  these  people  are  near  and  dear  to  us  by  the 
memory  of  many  kindnesses  which  we  and  ours  have  ex 
perienced  at  their  hands.  We  seldom  allow  a  winter  to 
pass  without  having  visited  every  house  on  the  estates, 
and  I  believe  we  are  safe  in  saying  that  no  landlords 
were  ever  better  loved  by  tenantry  than  are  we. 

On  the  dividing  line  of  our  estates,  and  entirely  sur 
rounded  by  our  lands,  is  a  farm  of  nearly  a  hundred 
acres,  of  as  fine  land  as  can  be  found  in  the  county.  You 
reach  the  house  by  a  lane  shaded  with  old  elm  trees,  that 
give  it  an  avenue-like  appearance,  and  indicate  at  least 
the  antiquity  of  taste  in  the  residents  of  the  Hickory 
Glen  farm.  In  a  hollow,  protected  on  the  north  by  a 
hill  covered  with  a  forest  of  fine  growth,  and  at  the  point 
where  the  brook  leaves  the  glen,  and  passes  out  into  the 
meadow  lands,  is  the  old  farm  house.  It  is  a  cottage, 
very  large,  and  very  ancient  in  appearance.  When  you 


42  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    RIVER. 

look  at  it,  you  think  it  covers  nearly  half  an  acre  of 
ground,  but  find  that  the  various  dairy-houses,  and  other 
farm  buildings  which  are  apt  to  be  near  the  house,  give 
it  this  extensive  appearance. 

This  farm  was  purchased  about  fifty  years  ago  from 
my  grandfather,  who  was  a  clergyman  and  a  man  of  con 
siderable  wealth.  He  sold  it  to  Adam  Pierson,  senior, 
who  had  a  son  of  his  own  name.  It  was  sold  because  he 
loved  Adam  Pierson.  So  says  his  will.  The  sale  was  a 
conditional  one ;  but  on  the  death  of  the  old  clergyman, 
his  will  released  it  from  all  conditions ;  and,  in  memory 
of  the  faith  and  friendship  of  Adam  Pierson  in  a  trying 
day,  when  death  came  suddenly  into  the  old  hall,  he 
gave  to  Adam  and  his  heirs  forever,  the  whole  of  the 
farm,  charged  only  with  a  small  annuity  to  my  old  maid 
en  great  aunt,  who  lived  but  six  months  to  enjoy  it. 

And  after  the  death  of  his  friend  and  adviser,  Adam 
Pierson  lived  nearly  twenty  years,  but  looking  always 
much  as  if  the  world  and  he  were  not  on  terms  of  inti 
macy;  and  when  he  died,  he  left  the  farm  to  his  son 
Adam,  who  was  the  friend  and  patron  of  my  early  years. 
Many  a  quail-snare  did  he  teach  me  to  set,  and  many  a 
partridge  fence  did  he  help  me  put  down.  I  remember 
not  a  few  rabbits  marked  by  him  for  my  shooting ;  and  the 
first  fox  I  ever  succeeded  in  unearthing,  was  by  his  direction. 

As  Joe  and  myself  grew  older,  we  retained  grateful 
recollections  of  his  kindness,  and  when  his  head  grew 
white  in  the  winter  of  life,  we  loved  him  well,  and  no  one 
was  more  welcome  at  the  hall  than  Adam  Pierson. 


ADAM    PIERSON.  43 

There  was  one  incident  in  his  family  history  that  we 
recall,  with  pleasure  now,  and  have  not  infrequently  re 
lated  to  those  who  saw  the  fine  form  of  the  old  man  in  the 
church  on  Sundays,  and  admired  his  herculean  propor 
tions.  It  was  a  Christmas  story  too,  worth  relating  again 
just  at  this  season,  for  as  I  write  it  is  the  birth-night ! 

Joe  sits  before  the  grate  in  silent  meditation.  A 
smile. is  on  his  face  and  I  know  the  companionship  he  has 
sought  and  found.  The  night  is  bitterly  cold,  but  clear 
and  beautiful  withal.  It  was  such  a  night  as  this,  a  score 
of  years  ago,  when  the  incidents  I  have  to  relate  occurred. 

It  was  then,  as  now,  the  birth-night.  A  thousand  years, 
almost  two  thousand,  have  the  hearts  of  men  clung  to  that 
day ;  children  lisped  carols  with  their  earliest  voices,  and 
old  men  gone  tremblingly  to  the  church  altar,  to  thank 
God  that  they  lived  to  celebrate  another  of  the  days  of 
the  coming  of  the  Lord.  Who  does  not  love  the  day  ? 
Around  it  cluster  the  holiest  associations  of  childhood 
and  of  youth ;  the  holiest  memories  of  old  times,  when 
pleasant  stories  and  happy  songs  made  the  fireside  glad, 
songs  and  stories  told  by  voices  that  are  silent  now,  and 
long  since. 

Then,  there  are  other  and  sublimer  recollections  and 
associations.  Thoughts  of  martyrs  and  holy  men  of  old, 
who  were  burned  in  the  flames  on  Christmas  day,  and  of 
the  midnight  vigils  of  the  persecuted  in  the  ancient  days, 
when  they  celebrated  the  birth-night  in  the  cities  of  the 
infidel.  I  never  see  the  stars  on  Christmas  eve  without 
fancying  that  they  look  lovingly  down  on  the  earth  then ; 


44  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY   THE    RIVER. 

and  that  they  remember  the  night  of  their  reward  and 
rejoicing,  when  a  new  one  burned  with  unknown  lustre 
on  the  breast  of  the  Almighty ! 

What  said  you  ?  It  is  not  the  exact  day  ?  Why  not  ? 
— and  what  if  it  is  not  ?  You  celebrate  the  landing  of 
the  Pilgrim  Fathers  on  the  very  day  they  did  not  land, 
and  the  round  world  itself  has  made  such  grievous  error 
every  year  in  time,  that  even  our  Sabbaths  are  all  wrong. 
But  what  of  that? 

It  was  Christmas  eve.  The  hearth  in  the  cottage  of 
old  Adam  Pierson  was  broad,  and  the  hickory  logs  blazed 
brightly ;  but  no  one  sat  before  it,  for  Adam's  youngest 
daughter  was  sick  and  nigh  unto  death,  and  in  her 
father's  room  the  family  were  all  gathered  to  watch  and 
wait  until  the  change  should  come. 

Sarah  was  a  well-beloved  child.  Her  calm  and  pleas 
ant  face  was  known  all  through  the  country  around,  and 
her  sweet  voice  in  the  village  choir  was  the  winsome 
sound  that  brought  many  a  young  man  to  the  church 
and  kept  him  there  till  the  doxology. 

But  Sarah  Pierson  was  dying.  So  said  the  doctor,  and 
he  was  a  good  and  wise,  if  he  was  a  quaint  old  man ;  and 
so  said  the  pastor,  and  he  was  old,  and  ought  to  know 
much  of  the  ways  of  life.  He  had  seen  her  grandfather 
and  grandmother  die,  and  had  watched  by  her  mother's 
side  when  the  hand  of  God  was  heavily  on  her,  and  he 
said  her  face  looked  much  as  the  old  man's  (her  grand 
father's)  face  looked,  when  he  was  drawing  near  to  the 
land  of  his  final  rest. 


ADAM   PIERSON.  45 

By  the  bedside  was  one  who  had  loved  Sarah  Pierson 
for  many  a  year  with  pure  and  true  love.  Philip  Winter 
was  the  son  of  the  pastor,  and  had  been  a  wild  boy  and 
a  dissipated  young  man.  But  when  he  was  nearly  thirty 
years  of  age,  the  vision  of  Sarah  Pierson's  beauty  had 
crossed  his  path,  and  he  compared  her  loveliness  and 
purity  with  the  false  form  of  beauty  he  had  been  worship 
ping,  and  he  straightway  turned  to  her  and  wooed  and 
won  her.  Or  she  won  him,  for  thereafter  there  was  no 
more  pleasure  for  him  in  the  wine-cup  or  the  revel,  and 
he  became  a  sober,  earnest  man,  and  began  to  make  rapid 
advance  in  his  profession  as  an  advocate. 

His  intellect  was  of  high  order  5  his  tastes  naturally 
refined  and  delicate,  and  his  powers  of  conversation  un 
surpassed.  Sarah  was  but  a  child,  yet  she  soon  learned 
to  value  that  high  heart  which  was  all  her  own,  and  from 
constant  association  with  him,  became  his  equal  and  com 
panion.  He  guided  her  reading  and  studies,  and  made 
her  an  accomplished  woman  before  she  was  eighteen. 
She  looked  up  to  him  as  a  stout  soul,  on  whose  strength 
she  depended ;  but  in  all  that  was  pure,  and  gentle,  and 
lovely,  he  worshipped  her  as  a  star  of  heaven. 

Well,  she  was  dying.  It  could  not  be  denied  or  doubt 
ed.  They  all  said  so,  and  she  said  so ;  and  she  said  it  in 
those  low,  moving  tones,  that  convinced  all  who  heard  it 
that  that  voice  had  already  ceased  to  be  of  the  earth.  But 
it  most  of  all  convinced  him,  whose  life  seemed  to  hang 
on  hers.  He  had  knelt  long  at  her  bedside  in  silence, 
while  his  father  wept  and  prayed  and  prayed  and  wept 


46  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    RIVER. 

by  turns.  Adam  Pierson  had  not  opened  his  lips  for 
many  hours,  except  to  give  directions  at  the  door  of  the 
room,  and  then  he  spoke  in  a  low  tone  of  anguish  which 
thrilled  through  the  hearts  of  all  who  knew  him;  for 
Adam  Pierson  had  been  a  somewhat  stern  man,  and 
when  agony  was  in  his  soul,  they  knew  that  his  pride 
made  it  suffer  the  more. 

The  night  struggled  painfully  along.  It  was  bitterly 
cold,  and  the  wind  wailed  out  of  doors  around  the  old 
house,  as  if  wild  with  frolic  or  madness.  Never  did  its 
tones  seem  so  cruel,  so  mocking.  But  Sarah,  the  gentle 
girl,  who  lay  there  pale  and  peaceful,  awaiting  the  com 
ing  change,  heeded  it  not,  except  to  smile  once  and  whis 
per,  "  Phil — dear  Phil,  you'll  think  of  me  when  you  hear 
the  wind  blow."  But  the  stout  man  did  not  lift  his 
head,  only  a  convulsive  sob  shook  his  iron  frame,  and  he 
was  still  again.  Midnight  had  passed.  The  wind  had 
lulled  somewhat,  and  it  seemed  now,  at  times,  as  if  it 
brought  angel  voices  on  its  wings,  now  far,  now  near, 
now  out  on  the  plain,  now  on  the  hill-side,  now  in  the 
branches  of  the  old  oak  tree,  now  at  the  very  casement 
of  the. sick  girl's  room,  and  then  suddenly  floating  away, 
as  if  among  the  stars. 

"  Philip,"  said  Sarah,  in  a  low  whisper.  He  rose  and 
bowed  his  face  to  hers.  "  Philip,  I  am  going  from  you 
I  think.  I  must  sleep.  I  cannot  keep  awake  longer. 
This  must  be  the  sleep  of  death  stealing  over  me,  and 
I  am  dying.  I  shall  not  wake  again,  Phil  dear,  to  put 
my  arms  around  your  neck ;  I  shall  not  feel  your  kiss 


ADAM    PIERSON.  47 

again,  nor  look  up  trustfully  into  your  eyes  ever  again. 
God  will  take  me,  Philip.  I  feel  his  arms  drawing  me 
closer  to  him  now.  I  will  not  ask  any  promise  from 
you.  I  only  ask  you  to  remember  my  grave.  Come  to 
it  often,  Philip,  and  oh,  when  darkness  is  around  you, 
when  the  night  of  temptation  comes,  as  I  know  it  will 
come  in  your  desolateness,  after  I  am  gone,  come  to  my 
grave  and  kneel  there  and  remember  me.  I  am  strong 
in  the  confidence  of  our  love,  and  I  know  that,  come 
what  may,  your  strong  heart  will  never  burst  these  bands 
which  I  bind  around  it  again,  and  yet  again." 

As  she  spoke  these  words  she  wound  her  arms  around 
his  neck,  and  kissed  him  twice,  gently  and  fondly,  and 
looked  then  into  his  eyes  with  a  long  gaze  of  devoted 
affection,  and  then  continued  in  a  lower  and  more  broken 
voice,  with  frequent  long  pauses. 

"  Good-bye,  good-bye;  oh,  what  sad  words  now  !  Some 
times  I  think  I  can't  be  dying.  I  don't  believe  I  am.  I 
hear  voices,  Phil.  Do  you  hear  them  ?  I  am  very,  very 
sleepy.  There,  put  your  arms  so — close  around  me — 
and  lay  your  cheek  close  against  mine,  and  I  will  go  to 
sleep,  to  sleep  forever — to  sleep  with  all  the  dead.  Is  it 
daybreak  yet  ?  Oh,  Phil,  do  you  remember  the  Christ 
mas  morning  two  years  ago  ?  I  wish — I  wish — oh,  I 
have  so  many  wishes  !  Now  I  must  sleep." 

A  few  more  words  like  these  were  murmured  in  tones 
scarcely  audible,  until  her  voice  ceased,  and  her  eyes 
closed,  and  her  white  cheek  lay  on  the  pillow,  and  Mr. 
Winter  sobbed  aloud,  and  falling  on  his  knees  prayed 


48  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY   THE    RIVER. 

God  to  give  them  all  strength  for  that  terrible  blow. 
But  the  doctor  alone  stood  firmly,  only  leaning  a  little 
forward,  gazing  intently  at  Sarah  Pierson's  face,  and  at 
length  spoke  in  a  few  low  words  of  holy  writ,  "  She  is 
not  dead,  but  sleepeth." 

The  effect  was  magical.  Philip  sprang  to  his  feet. 
The  old  man  sank  back  in  his  chair,  and  the  pastor  knelt 
still  by  the  bedside,  with  eyes  fixed  on  the  face  of  the 
girl,  while  he  prayed  that  those  hopeful  tones  of  the 
good  doctor  might  not  be  without  reason.  Three  hours 
of  anxious  watching  passed,  and  day  broke  on  the 
country  side.  The  Christmas  sun  was  very  bright  and 
clear  on  the  snow,  but  the  sexton  was  not  called  that  day 
to  dig  a  grave  among  the  drifts. 

"  Where  am  I  ?"  asked  the  sick  girl,  as  she  awoke  at 
length  from  the  long  and  refreshing  sleep. 

"  You  are  in  a  little  heaven,  my  beloved,"  answered 
the  low,  glad  voice  of  Philip  Winter,  as  he  sat  on  her 
bedside,  and  held  her  thin,  white  hand,  "  You  are  in  a 
little  heaven,  since  you  have  come  back  to  us." 

There  was  joy  in  the  cottage  of  Adam  Pierson  that 
evening,  and  the  Christmas  fire  blazed  gloriously  on  the 
hearthstone,  and  the  stars  winked  and  blinked  down  the 
great  chimney,  as  if  the  smoke  was  in  their  eyes,  but 
didn't  move  any  farther  away,  for  they  seemed  to  know 
there  was  great  joy  in  the  farm-house  and  around  the 
hearth  fire ;  and  when  the  voice  of  Philip  Winter  was 
heard  in  a  loud  clear  Christmas  carol,  they  listened  to 
it,  and  sent  it  echoing  from  one  to  another  of  them,  until 


ADAM    PIEKSON.  49 

verily  it  seemed  to  Adam  Pierson  and  to  Philip  Winter, 
that  night,  as  if  the  song  of  creation  were  renewed,  or 
else  the  hosts  of  heaven  were  busy  in  welcoming  again  a 
star  among  their  number,  as  on  that  night  almost  two 
thousand  years  ago. 

But  the  voices  of  the  wind  seemed  sad,  and  well  they 
might  be,  for  the  angels  had  hoped  to  have  another 
among  them,  and  they  were  disappointed,  and  their  sad 
voices  floated  all  night  around  the  house.  But  the  happy 
ones  within  did  not  heed  them ;  and  as  they  threw  new 
logs  on .  the  fire,  and  the  sparks  went  dancing,  and  the 
blaze  went  floating  up  the  chimney  sides,  the  voice  of 
Philip  Winter  grew  clearer  and  gladder,  and  at  length 
he  broke  out  into  a  song  of  thanksgiving,  which  sounded 
through  three  or  four  doors,  so  that  Sarah  heard  it  where 
she  lay,  and  smiled  joyously  in  her  mother's  face,  and  then 
fell  asleep,  and  dreamed  of  the  little  heaven  that  Phil  had 
spoken  of,  in  which  his  voice  seemed  that  of  a  chief  spirit. 

And  that  house  was  a  heaven  for  many  a  year.  Adam 
grew  older,  and  was  gathered  at  length  to  the  grave-yard 
among  the  hills.  When  the  sun  is  at  noon  on  Christmas 
day,  the  point  of  the  shadow  of  the  church  spire  is  at  the 
very  head  stone  of  his  grave.  Philip  and  Sarah  were 
married,  and  to-morrow  they  will  dine  with  us. 

Lucy  will  be  here  with  a  party  from  the  city,  and  we 
shall  have  a  pleasant  Christmas  day.  it  is  midnight, 
and  I  will  rouse  Joe  from  his  reverie  to  wish  him  a 
inerrie  Christmas. 

3 


III. 


IT  would  be  easily  gathered  from  the  sketches  of  our 
past  and  present  lives,  which  this  volume  will  contain, 
that  Willis  and  myself  have  little  regularity  of  habits. 
To  confess  the  truth,  we  have  none.  As  the  whim  seizes 
us,  we  act,  move,  or  sleep ;  and  it  is  unusual  to  have  a 
plan  for  more  than  a  week  in  advance,  and  not  very  fre 
quent  for  us  to"  know  what  adventure  the  coming  day  is 
likely  to  find  us  engaged  in.  Our  boat,  the  Phantom, 
lies  at  the  wharf  near  the  old  hall,  and  our  horses  are  in 
the  stables.  We  cannot  say  whether,  to-morrow  morn 
ing,  we  shall  be  at  sea  in  the  Phantom,  or  on  our  way 
to  the  forest  with  the  horses.  Perhaps  neither ;  for  the 
notion  may  seize  one  of  us  to  go  to  the  city,  and  the 
other  will  infallibly  consent,  and  we  shall  go  together. 

If  at  sea,  Block  Island,  Newport,  and  Stonington  are 
our  post-offices,  where  we  call  for  books  and  letters.  If 
in  the  forest,  we  are  at  our  cabin  on  the  river  bank,  with 
Black  for  a  host,  and  the  winds  for  company.  For  there 
is  no  human  residence  within  five  miles  of  that  cabin. 

A  more  lonesome,  yet  a  more  beautiful  place  is  not  to 


54  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY   THE    RIVER. 

be  found.  A  magnificent  creek  pours  its  deep  current 
into  a  lordly  river,  at  a  point  where  the  low,  oak-covered 
shore  on  the  one  side,  is  forcibly  contrasted  with  the  high 
rugged  mountain  on  the  other.  The  roar  of  the  river 
through  the  lower  pass  is  constant,  while  immediately  in 
front  of  the  cabin  it  is  as  placid  as  a  lake,  slowly  gliding 
toward  its  turbulent  outlet.  Here,  for  many  years  of 
our  aimless,  yet  be  it  hoped  not  useless  lives,  we  have 
passed  much  of  almost  every  autumn  and  early  winter, 
as  well  as  some  of  the  weeks  in  May  and  June.  In  this 
region  the  deer  abound ;  the  bear  are  not  unfrequently 
venturesome ;  wolves  have  been  shot,  and  smaller  game 
of  every  kind  are  to  be  had  for  the  seeking ;  while  the 
creek  is  stocked  with  trout,  such  as  would  do  old  Izaak 
good  to  behold,  and  more  good  to  feel  on  his  line. 

We  have  but  recently  returned  from  our  usual  autumn 
visit.  We  were  at  the  cabin  only  three  weeks,  and  had 
some  bad  weather.  On  the  day  of  our  arrival,  Black  told 
us  he  had  seen  a  bear  on  the  mountain,  and  we  were  off 
in  the  morning  before  daylight. 

Thinking  it  dangerous  work  for  the  dogs,  I  chained 
Nora  and  John  at  the  cabin,  and  determined  to  try  the 
old  plan  of  tracking  the  bear  by  his  foot-prints.  Not  a 
very  easy  task  in  the  forest,  after  the  leaves  have  fallen, 
but  not  so  difficult  as  it  might  at  first  appear. 

We  pushed  across  the  river  in  the  small  canoe,  and 
crossed  the  mountain  ;  pausing  on  the  summit,  to  watch 
the  coming  of  the  dawn. 

It  was  a  glorious  sight,  as  the  stately  footsteps  of  the 


THE    BEAR    HUNT.  55 

day  began  to  be  visible  in  the  east,  calmly  and  steadily  ad 
vancing  into  perfect  light.  The  stars  retired  gracefully, 
one  by  one  disappearing.  Only  one  remained  glowing  in 
the  flush  of  the  coming  sunlight,  when  we  plunged  into 
the  forest. 

Two  hundred  rods  from  the  brow  of  the  mountain  was 
a  hollow,  with  a  swamp  thicket  in  the  centre,  always  wet, 
and  usually  producing  a  short,  crisp,  green  grass,  on 
which  the  white  frost  was  plainly  visible  till  the  sun 
struck  it.  The  slightest  touch  changed  the  silvery  color 
of  the  grass  to  a  dark  watery  black,  and  it  was  here  that 
I  expected  to  find  traces  of  the  game.  Nor  was  I  disap 
pointed  ;  for  on  entering  the  hollow,  I  saw  before  me  the 
foot-prints  of  two  bears,  distinctly  marked  on  the  grass, 
going  toward  the  thicket  and  not  returning. 

Between  us  and  the  swamp  was  a  broad  open  space  of 
fifty  rods,  across  which  they  had  passed.  The  first  matter 
to  be  decided  was,  whether  they  had  left  the  thicket  on 
the  other  side,  and  if  not,  what  was  the  best  means  of 
provoking  them  out  of  it,  without  exposing  ourselves. 

Leaving  Joe  at  the  point  where  we  first  saw  the  foot 
prints,  I  went  cautiously  around  the  hollow,  keeping 
under  cover,  until  I  had  made  a  complete  circuit  of  the 
swamp  and  was  satisfied  that  we  had  run  our  game  to 
cover  without  the  slightest  trouble.  Accordingly  I  re 
turned  to  the  side  of  Joe,  and  we  held  a  council. 

If  we  should  expose  ourselves,  the  chances  were  in 
favor  of  the  bears ;  for  either  both  of  them  would  show 
fight,  or  else  both  of  them  would  run,  and  that  doubtless 


56  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    RIVER. 

at  the  most  distant  point  from  us  in  the  thicket.  If  we 
took  opposite  sides  we  should  be  sure  to  lose  them,  and 
our  only  hope  was  a  stratagem  of  some  sort. 

"  I  say,  Joe,  what  do  bears  eat  ?" 

"  Honey,  Phil." 

"  Honey  don't  make  a  noise.     Try  again." 

"  Sheep  ;  when  acorns  are  scarce." 

"  Are  you  certain  ?" 

"  No,  but  I'll  try  it  and  find  out." 

"  Ba— a." 

The  bleat  was  perfect,  but  might  have  answered  as 
well  for  a  doe  as  a  sheep.  It  was  very  well,  however,  for 
we  heard  a  crash  in  the  thicket. 

"  That  moved  them.  Now  for  our  quarters." 
,  Accordingly  we  each  mounted  a  tree,  one  about  sixty 
yards  from  the  other,  selecting  them  so  small  that  a  bear 
would  not  be  likely  to  attempt  to  come  up  also,  and  yet 
stout  enough  to  be  a  protection.  Having  safely  braced 
ourselves,  we  commenced  a  duet,  well  calculated  to  cheat 
a  bear  if  he  wasn't  uncommonly  bright.  A  human  being 
would  unquestionably  have  taken  us  for  sheep,  whatever 
a  sheep  might  have  thought  of  it. 

Iii  a  moment  we  saw  the  two  bears  coming  along  at  a 
shuffling  pace,  at  once  ludicrous  and  astonishing.  I  never 
saw  a  bear  move  without  being  surprised  at  his  velocity, 
and  the  noiseless  manner  in  which  he  got  along.  An 
owl's  hoot  from  Joe  indicated  that  he  saw  them,  and  we 
suspended  our  calls. 

At  this  moment  two  new  actors  entered  the  scene. 


THE    BEAR    HUNT.  5? 

Nora  and  John  had  been  taken  out  by  Black  to  feed,  an 
hour  after  we  left,  and  in  spite  of  all  lie  could  do,  took  to 
the  water  like  fish,  swam  the  river,  and  overtook  us  just 
in  time  to  see  the  bears  advancing.  The  latter  no  sooner 
saw  the  dogs  than  they  paused,  and,  with  a  low  snarl, 
seemed  to  be  preparing  to  repay  what  they  appeared  to 
regard  as  a  low  piece  of  cheating.  The  idea  of  dogs  imi 
tating  sheep,  to  cheat  bears  into  the  expectation  of  a 
good  breakfast !  and  hounds  too,  thin  as  rails  and  per 
fectly  destitute  of  fat !  A  dozen  of  them  wouldn't  make 
a  comfortable  meal  for  a  cub ;  and  here  were  two  fellows, 
all  bone  and  gristle,  (as  the  bears  soon  learned,)  that  had 
deliberately  led  them  into  this  disappointment ! 

But  the  dogs  flew  at  them  with  very  different  senti 
ments,  and  Nora's  broad  breast  and  stout  limbs  soon 
convinced  the  one  she  seized  that  he  had  a  job  before 
him. 

They  shook  the  dogs  off  and  rose  on  their  haunches, 
back  to  back.  The  scene  was  comical  beyond  descrip 
tion.  No  one  who  has  not  seen  a  bear  in  this  position 
can  imagine  the  ludicrous  imitation  of  humanity  he 
presents.  And  here  were  two  of  them,  braced  firmly 
each  against  the  other,  looking  gravely  with  their  little 
sparkling  eyes,  at  the  dogs,  and  waving  their  paws  with 
gestures  of  dissatisfaction,  or  warning,  to  their  tormentors, 
that  seemed  clearly  enough  to  advise  them  to  keep  a  safe 
distance. 

The  dogs  did  n't  take  the  hint.  Nora  sprang  at  the 
largest  one,  receiving  a  pat  from  his  paw  that  only 
3* 


58  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    RIVER. 

changed  the  direction  of  her  attempt,  for  she  seized  the 
ear  of  the  other  and  tore  it  badly.  The  bear,  enraged  at 
the  attack  from  the  rear,  which  he  supposed  fully  guarded 
by  his  companion,  attributed  the  wound,  of  course,  to  that 
source,  and  wheeled  instantly,  and  struck  his  ally  a  blow 
on  the  side  of  his  head  that  might  have  felled  a  profess 
ional  boxer.  It  did  the  business  for  the  bear,  for  it  laid 
him  flat  on  the  ground,  and  before  he  could  recover  him 
self,  thanks  to  the  teeth  of  John  and  Nora,  he  was  minus 
an  ear  and  the  end  of  his  nose,  while  his  mate  was  mak 
ing  long  strides  for  the  woods  beyond  the  hollow.  The 
whole  scene  occurred  out  of  rifle  shot  from  us,  and  we 
were  therefore  silent  witnesses  of  it ;  for  though  we  had 
forsaken  our  trees,  and  were  hastening  to  the  rescue  of 
the  dogs,  the  whole  affair  had  been  so  brief,  that  we  were 
in  sight  of  the  bear  only  when  he  found  himself  deserted. 

As  he  rose  and  freed  himself  from  the  dogs,  he  caught 
sight  of  us,  and  again  rose  on  his  haunches,  waving  his 
paws  furiously  as  if  to  clear  away  a  cloud  from  before 
his  eyes,  and  assure  himself  that  he  saw  correctly. 

There  could  410 1  be  any  mistake  about  it ;  he  saw  dis 
tinctly  two  specimens  of  the  human  sort,  and  this  in 
creased  the  vexation  of  his  disappointment  about  the 
breakfast.  But  a  bear  is  a  wise  animal,  and  discretion 
with  him,  in  the  present  case,  was  decidedly  the  perfec 
tion  of  valor ;  and  he  incontinently  exhibited  to  us  a 
round  ball  of  flesh  growing  smaller  as  it  grew  more  dis 
tant  :  for  a  retreating  bear  looks  like  nothing  but  a 
black  ball  on  legs.  Joe  sent-a  rifle  ball  after  him,  which 


THE    BEAR    HUNT.  59 

had  the  effect  to  make  him  turn  his  head  and  snarl  at  us, 
retreating  steadily ;  and  when  he  entered  the  forest  there 
seemed  little  prospect  of  our  finding  him  or  his  compan 
ion  again  that  day. 

The  dogs  would!  have  followed  him  but  for  my  sharp 
call,  that  brought  them  to  our  feet,  and  I  was  glad  to  find 
that  they  were  not  wounded  by  the  fray. 

The  sun  was  now  tinging  the  tree  tops  with  that  rich 
lustre  of  the  autumn  morning  that  seems  to  make  more 
glorious  the  varied  robe  of  the  hills.  The  sky  was  clear 
and  deep  blue ;  the  air  was  still  and  calm ;  the  forest 
voiceless.  There  was  not  a  sound  to  disturb  the  repose 
of  all  the  world  we  could  see  around  us. 

That  little  world  of  ours  was  a  pleasant  one,  after  all. 
What  more  so  ?  There  was  Joe  Willis,  the  companion 
of  a  lifetime,  and  there  were  the  good  dogs  that  had  been 
with  us  many  a  day  like  that,  and  there  was  the  sky 
and  the  forest,  the  sun  and  the  earth.  To  us  a  golden 
world,  of  calm  and  of  joy ;  and  within  us  there  were  a 
thousand  happy  thoughts.  We  might  have  seated  our 
selves  on  the  grass,  and  talked  the  sun-light  down  the 
western  sky  with  pleasant  talk,  nor  grown  weary,  or 
wished  for  a  change.  Such  is  our  forest  life,  and  so  full 
of  enjoyment  are  all  our  days  passed  together. 

We  rested  a  few  moments,  and  discussed  some  hard 
bread  and  dried  venison  for  breakfast,  while  we  arranged 
the  proper  plan  for  circumventing  the  bears. 

About  three  miles  from  us  was  a  deep  hollow,  or  basin, 
in  which  the  fallen  trees  lay  as  they  had  fallen  for  a 


60  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    RIVER. 

hundred  years,  and  to  which  the  sun-light  scarcely  pene 
trated  through  the  overhanging  branches  of  hemlock 
and  pine.  I  had  once  before  found  traces  of  bears  near 
this  glen,  but  I  had  no  notion  of  meeting  one  alone  in  its 
mazes;  for  it  was  a  half  hour's  work  to  climb  the  fallen 
trees  and  get  into  the  hollow,  a  piece  of  business  very 
short  to  a  bear.  The  chances  were  ten  to  one  against  a 
man  with  one  bear  there,  and  forty  to  one  if  he  found 
two.  But  with  two  men  the  case  was  different,  and  the 
chances  materially  varied.  I  made  up  my  mind  that  our 
friends  had  sought  that  cover,  and  Joe  coincided  with  me 
in  opinion.  So  we  trudged  along  the  oak  opening  to  the 
brow  of  the  hill,  at  the  foot  of  which  lay  the  basin ;  Joe 
all  the  way  whistling  cheerily,  and  occasionally  singing  a 
line  of  an  old  song,  with  a  clear  rich  voice,  that  floated 
through  the  forest  as  you  would  have  loved  to  hear  it. 
He  was  silent  as  we  approached  the  cover,  and  I  crept  to 
a  rocky  point  overlooking  the  hollow,  and  laughed  aloud 
in  spite  of  myself  at  the  curious  spectacle  presented  be 
low.  The  two  bears  were  there,  seated  facing  each 
other,  and  manifestly  disputing.  Whether  the  one 
was  charging  the  other  with  cowardly  desertion  at  a 
critical  moment,  or  the  other  was  justifying  himself  by 
accusing  his  companion  of  a  dastardly  attack  in  the  rear, 
it  was  impossible  to  say,  but  there  they  were,  snarling, 
growling,  and  gesticulating,  as  much  like  two  politicians 
in  a  bar-room  as  brute  animals  could  be. 

Joe,  seeing  me   laugh,   approached  and  enjoyed  the 
scene  awhile.    But  now  it  became  necessary  to  determine 


THE    BEAR   HUNT.  61 

on  our  course.  Willis  proposed  to  try  the  sheep  again, 
and  see  if  it  would  not  scare  them  this  time.  If  they 
left  the  hollow  it  could  only  be  within  near  gun-shot  of 
our  stand.  Accordingly  he  gave  one  faint  bleat. 

The  effect  in  the  hollow  was  electrical.  One  bear 
vanished  under  a  pile  of  fallen  trees,  while  the  other 
came  up  the  side  of  the  ravine  as  rapidly  as  he  could 
ascend. 

Half  way  up  the  hill  he  was  exposed  to  Joe's  unerring 
aim,  and  a  ball  crashed  through  his  head  just  under  his 
eye. 

"  A  little  too  low,  Joe.  Give  him  the  next  ball  on 
his  cheek,  between  the  eye  and  ear." 

"  (rive  him  your  ball,  Phil.  I  have  forgotten  to  load 
my  second  barrel."  * 

He  had  paused  a  moment,  and  now  stood  on  the  trunk 
of  a  tree,  which  he  was  crossing,  when  my  ball  met  him. 
His  hold  loosened,  and  he  fell  back,  and  rolled  a  hundred 
feet  down  into  the  very  spot  where  he  had  been  standing 
with  his  companion. 

"  Now,  Joe,  about  that  other  one.  It  is  a  clear  case 
that  we  can't  get  this  one's  hide  without  a  battle  with 
the  other.  What  say  you  ?" 

"  I  am  ready.     Let  us  load  first." 

We  loaded  both  barrels,  (we  each  carry  a  swivel 
breech  rifle,)  and  began  our  perilous  descent,  in  which  a 
misstep  or  a  stumble  would  send  us  into  the  embrace  of 
an  enemy  that  would  have  little  mercy. 

The  bear  continued  under  cover  of  the  trees  which  lay 


62  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    RIVER. 

piled  in  the  hollow,  and  it  was  a  slow  task  to  approach 
him,  for  we  had  to  climb  over  masses  of  fallen  timber, 
jump  down  into  spaces  between  them,  and  climb  again 
to  the  top  of  other  masses,  and  so  ascend  and  descend 
until  we  reached  the  spot. 

As  I  sprang  from  a  pile  of  trees,  some  ten  feet  high, 
into  a  square  sort  of  enclosure,  surrounded  by  similar 
piles,  I  was  startled  at  a  sharp,  quick  snarl,  and  out 
rushed  the  enemy  tenfold  more  frightened  than  I  was. 
He  went  up  the  breastwork  of  trunks  like  a  cat.  I 
sprang  at  him,  but  could  only  reach  his  hind  legs  with 
my  knife,  which  I  drew  swiftly  across  them  both,  and 
effectually  ham-strung  him.  At  the  same  instant  Joe 
gave  him  the  ball  from  one  barrel,  within  twenty  feet  of 
him,  and  he  tumbled  back  into  the  enclosure,  out  of 
which  I  sprang  as  rapidly  as  he  fell.  Never  were 
mingled  pain  and  rage  more  thoroughly  displayed.  He 
gnashed  his  teeth  and  growled,  and  fairly  howled  with 
agony,  while  he  tore  the  ground,  bit  the  barks  of  the 
fallen  trees,  and  even  seized  the  stones  in  his  mouth  and 
crunched  his  jaws  on  them.  Seven  balls  were  necessary 
to  quiet  him.  We  shot  always  at  his  head,  so  as  to  pre 
serve  his  skin  as  perfectly  as  possible ;  but  it  was  not 
till  half  an  hour  had  passed  after  the  last  ball  was  shot 
into  him,  that  either  of  us  ventured  into  the  enclosure. 
Meantime,  we  had  skinned  the  other  and  selected  a  few 
steaks  ;  but  there  are  only  a  half  dozen  pounds  of  meat 
on  a  bear  fit  to  be  eaten  by  any  man,  and  those  only 
when  he  is  starving.  We  were  not  precisely  starving, 


THE    BEAR    HUNT. 


63 


but  we  were  reasonably  hungry.  So  we  broiled  the  bear- 
steaks  while  they  were  warm,  and  ate  them  with  salt  and 
hard  bread,  and  made  a  meal  out  of  him.  Then  we 
skinned  the  other,  and  found  our  way  back  to  the  cabin 
with  our  trophies. 

Such  was  one  day  at  the  cabin,  and  such  was  each  suc 
cessive  day,  until  the  storm  came.  Then  we  lay  on  our 
bear-skins  before  the  fire  and  read  all  day  long,  or  talked 
of  other  times  and  scenes,  or  told  stories  of  the  chase,  or 
planned  expeditions  for  the  coming  pleasant  days. 
And  in  the  evenings,  when  the  night  came  down  on  the 
forest,  as  it  never  comes  on  the  city,  in  majestic  stillness ; 
and  calmly  as  a  great  thought  of  death  or  sorrow  comes 
down  on  a  strong  soul ;  when  the  river's  rushing  along 
the  lower  pass  was  the  only  sound  outside  the  doors,  and 
the  stars  peered  down  our  cabin  chimney  at  our  fire  on 
the  broad  hearth ;  then  we  lay  watching  the  flickering 
shadows  on  the  walls,  tapestried  with  the  trophies  of  many 
a  chase,  and  telling  tales  of  childhood  and  youth ;  pass 
ing  from  memory  to  memory  with  thoughts  as  bright  and 
as  changeful  as  the  firelight,  until  in  the  small  hours  after 
the  noon  of  night,  we  would  all  lie  sleeping  on  the  cabin 
floor,  a  pleasant  company  of  woodmen,  scarcely  to  be 
recognized  as  the  masters  of  the  old  hall  in  which  we  are 
now  sitting.  But  so  our  lives  vary. 


IV. 

dirhtm    Cnmnis. 


ON  the  north  side  of  the  upper  bend  of  the  river,  five 
miles  from  our  cabin,  was  a  log-hut  occupied  by  a 
man  who  had  lived  a  better  life  in  his  earlier  years.  He 
was  sometimes  peculiarly  attractive  in  his  manner  of 
conversing  about  forest  matters,  and  once  when  he  was 
half  drunk,  I  was  quite  sure  I  detected  him  muttering  to 
himself  one  of  the  odes  of  Anacreon.  I  looked  then 
closely  at  him ;  but  he  eyed  me  suspiciously,  as  I  thought, 
and  raised  his  voice  so  that  I  could  hear  him  distinctly, 
but  he  was  now  talking  English  in  his  usual  rough  style 
and  dialect.  I  might  have  been  mistaken.  He  was  a 
hard  drinker,  but  perhaps  never  was  actually  drunk.  He 
could  drink  more  than  any  man  I  have  ever  known,  with 
out  being  on  the  floor,  and  yet  when  in  that  condition 
which  was  consequent  on  his  potations,  if  not  really 
drunk,  he  was  usually  insane,  and  it  was  dangerous  to  be 
in  his  neighborhood.  These  fits  were  periodical,  but 
whether  caused  by  his  visits  to  the  post-office  being  quar 
terly,  at  which  time  he  carried  down  a  canoe -load  of 
skins,  or  whether  he  was  able  to  restrain  himself  for 


68  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    RIVER. 

three  months  at  a  time,  and  then  was  impelled  by  his 
thirst  to  make  the  trip  to  the  settlement,  I  am  unable  to 
say. 

Such  habits  as  these,  it  need  not  be  said,  would  wear 
out  the  frame  of  a  giant.  Such  indeed  was  his.  He 
was  at  least  six  feet  one  inch  high,  and  proportionally 
broad-shouldered  and  heavy-limbed.  I  have  seen  him 
shoulder  two  deer  which  must  have  weighed  over  two 
hundred  and  eighty  (they  were  not  very  large  ones)  and 
carry  them  through  the  woods  as  easily  as  I  would  have 
carried  one.  Had  you  been  with  me  that  morning  in 
the  forest  you  would  have  shrunk  as  I  did  from  the  idea 
that  that  gigantic  form  could  be  in  so  short  a  time  a 
handful  of  dust.  Yet  so  it  was,  and  I  watched  the 
struggle  of  the  destroyer  with  the  stout  man  as  I  never 
watched  battle  before.  I  need  not  tell  you  that  the  vic 
tory  was  complete  at  last ;  and  when  I  took  his  brawny 
hand  in  mine  there  was  no  pressure,  not  the  slightest 
touch  of  recognition,  in  the  limb  which  had  possessed  the 
strength  of  Hercules. 

It  was  a  cold  autumn  night,  the  fifteenth  of  October. 
Black  was  sitting  at  the  hearth,  and  heard  a  call  on  the 
opposite  bank  of  the  river.  It  was  repeated,  and  the 
second  cry,  coming  with  a  gust  of  wind  that  made  a 
loud  wail  in  the  branches  of  the  oak,  woke  Willis  and 
myself. 

It  proved  to  be  a  neighbor  of  "  Big  Ben"  (as  he  was 
called,  although  I  believe  his  real  name  was  unknown  to 
any  one).  He  had  come  down  to  beg  some  of  us  to  go 


DELIRIUM    TREMENS.  69 

up  and  see  Ben,  who,  from  his  account,  it  appeared  was 
laboring  under  one  of  his  fits  of  insanity. 

We  went  up,  and  found  him  raving  in  delirium  tre- 
mens.  To  attempt  any  description  of  such  a  fit  would 
be  folly  in  me,  and  only  disgust  the  reader.  Those  who 
have  never  seen  the  victim  of  such  madness,  can  obtain 
from  words  no  idea  of  the  horror  of  the  scene.  It  has 
always  seemed  to  me  to  approach,  nearest  of  anything 
earthly,  to  the  agony  of  the  damned.  Ben  continued  in 
this  condition,  with  intervals  of  stupid  silence,  until  the 
day ;  alternately  moaning  in  a  low  agonizing  tone,  and 
then  shrieking  until  the  forest  in  which  his  cabin  stood, 
rang  as  if  with  the  laughter  of  fiends.  I  stood  outside 
of  the  door  for  an  instant,  and  I  believe  I  was  actually 
scared  at  the  unearthly  sound  that  filled  the  air.  Toward 
morning  he  appeared  to  be  exhausted,  and  sank  into  a 
sort  of  stupor  or  sleep,  from  which  it  was  impossible  to 
rouse  him. 

I  afterward  learned  that  this  was  the  fifth  day  of  his 
madness,  and  was  not  surprised  to  see  that  he  was  nearly 
worn  out.  In  the  course  of  the  day  he  was  almost  mo 
tionless,  and  it  was  only  by  the  most  powerful  exertions 
that  we  could  force  anything  into  his  mouth,  so  tightly 
were  his  jaws  clenched.  In  the  early  part  of  the  next 
night,  I  was  sleeping  on  the  floor  not  far  from  him,  when 
I  felt  the  grasp  of  his  stout  hand  on  my  arm,  and  waking 
instantly,  found  his  eyes  wide  open  and  staring  fixedly  at 
me.  His  grasp  tightened  until  it  was  painful,  and  I  con 
fess  to  a  momentary  terror,  but  his  eye  had  no  madness 


70  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY   THE    RIVER. 

in  it,  and  when  not  in  the  fits  I  have  spoken  of,  Ben  was 
a  kind-hearted,  and  really  gentle  fellow. 

"  There,  Ben,  there  ;  not  quite  so  tight,"  said  I  mildly, 
laying  my  hand  on  his. 

"  I  thought — it  was  you — choking — me,"  said  he  in  a 
husky,  broken  voice,  speaking  with  great  difficulty. 

"  Why  should  I  choke  you,  my  dear  fellow  ?  You 
were  dreaming.  I'm  glad  to  see  you're  awake." 

"  I  say — Phillips,  I'm  not  dreaming — and — I  tell  you 
— something's — on  my  throat — and — Grod !  how  it  tight 
ens." 

He  tried  to  raise  himself  from  the  floor,  and  succeeded 
at  length.  Reeling  like  a  drunken  man,  he  crossed  the 
cabin  to  the  water  gourd,  and  taking  it  up  in  both  hands 
guided  it  with  difficulty  to  his  lips  and  drank  till  it  was 
more  than  half  empty,  then  reeled  back  to  the  bed  of 
skins  again,  and  throwing  himself  down,  commenced  sing 
ing  in  a  voice  which,  always  good,  was  now  uncommonly 
clear,  an  old  mountain  song ;  but  before  he  had  finished 
the  first  verse  he  paused,  with  an  oath,  cursing  his  throat, 
which  was  again  parched  with  the  raging  fever  that  now 
had  possession  of  him.  Black,  who  had  lain  silent  dur 
ing  all  this,  now  came  to  his  side,  and  I  also  took  a  seat 
on  the  bearskin  which  covered  his  bed. 

"  Ben,  you're  sick,  do  you  know  it  ?"  said  Black. 

"  Yes,  yes,  Black,  I'm  used  up.  I  thought  it  would 
come  to  this  at  last.  Every  dog  has  his  day,  and  I've 
had  mine." 

"  Keep  quiet,  Ben,  and  we'll  put  you  all  right  in  a  day." 


DELIRIUM    TREMENS.  7l 

"  Don't  you  believe  it ;  don't  you  believe  it.  I've  had 
my  last  spree,  and  now  comes  the  finishing." 

I  fancied  I  heard  him  muttering  to  himself  something 
like  a  quotation  from  Scripture,  but  I  couldn't  detect  it 
clearly.  I  had  long  looked  with  great  interest  on  Ben, 
for  he  had  a  fine  soul.  I  had  met  no  less  than  three 
men  in  the  forest  who  had  been  elegantly  educated,  and 
doubtless  were  valued  members  of  society,  who  from 
some  strange  whim  or  misanthropy  had  taken  to  the  wild 
life  of  the  woods,  and  I  was  fully  prepared  to  find  that 
Ben  was  just  such  a  man.  I  was  therefore  not  surprised 
when  he  looked  up  at  me  and  said,  "  Mr.  Phillips,  what 
do  you  think  my  old  father  would  say  if  he  should  see 
me  dying  here  ?  The  old  man  thought  me  always  a  wild 
boy,  and  I  have  proved  myself  one,  haven't  I  ?" 

"  You're  a  long  way  off  from  dying,  Ben." 

"  Not  so  long  as  you  fancy.  I've  felt  this  day  coming, 
and  I  remember  when  I  was  a  boy  I  used  to  dream  of 
just  such  a  death  as  this  will  be.  My  father,  he  was  a 
good  old  minister,  used  to  say  to  me,  '  Mend  your  ways, 
boy,  mend  your  ways,  or  you'll  repent  some  day  in  sor 
row  ;'  but  I  always  laughed  after  he  left  me,  sober  as  I 
was  when  I  was  with  him.  I  couldn't  bear  to  grieve  him, 
for  I  did  love  him ;"  a  pause,  and  he  continued  in  a  low 
tone,  "  Yes ;  I  loved  him  and  my  mother.  I  remember 
now  more  than  I  ever  thought  I  should.  This  life  has 
pretty  much  spoiled  my  memory,  but  I  see  it  all  now. 
The  old  parsonage !  It  wanted  paint  more  than  the  church 
did.  Old  Deacon ,  curse  him,  could  have  spared 


72  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    EIVER. 

paint  from  his  hypocritical  face,  and  enough  to  cover  the 
church  too.  Ha,  ha ;  the  deacon  had  the  worst  of  it  that 
morning — I  wish  I  could  have  seen  the  old  man  in  his 
coffin  though.  I  did'nt  think  that  he'd  die  so  very  soon 
or  I  might  have  staid  longer."  And  so  he  continued 
muttering  sentences,  by  which  I  gathered  that  he  had 
been  the  unruly  son  of  a  country  pastor,  educated  with 
the  usual  care  of  a  clergyman's  children,  but  that  one 
day  after  he  had  a  quarrel  with  one  of  the  officers  of  the 
church,  his  father  had  punished  him  severely,  and  he  had 
that  day  left  home  and  began  the  wandering  life  which 
ended  in  this  cabin. 

In  the  course  of  the  next  three  days,  in  the  delirium 
of  fever,  he  spoke  of  scenes  in  many  lands  which  con 
vinced  me  he  had  been  a  traveller ;  and  I  gathered,  too,  that 
he  had  not  always  been  without  company ;  but  whether 
the  Lizzie  of  his  dreams  had  been  his  wife  or  not,  I  could 
not  determine.  He  spoke  of  her  in  tones  of  very  deep 
affection,  but  as  if  he  had  wronged  her  and  she  had  died. 
I  do  not  wish  to  be  understood  as  saying  that  he  spoke  of 
these  touching  memories  in  the  way  which  would  have 
been  most  fitting.  On  the  contrary,  he  used  the  roughest 
language,  not  infrequently  coupling  the  names  of  father 
and  mother  and  Lizzie  with  oaths  too  shocking  to  be  re 
peated.  Yet  there  was  a  burst  of  agony  occasionally 
which  recalled  the  long-concealed  emotions  of  his  heart, 
in  language  such  as  he  might  have  used  in  his  better  and 
more  refined  boyhood. 

At  the  close  of  the  third  day  he  was  speechless,  and 


DELIRIUM    TREMENS.  73 

evidently  dying.  Black,  Winter,  Smith,  (from  below,) 
Willis,  and  myself,  took  turns  in  watching  by  him,  and 
at  this  time  we  were  all  with  him. 

His  giant  form  was  stretched  out  on  the  black  skins, 
covered  with  blankets,  and  the  long,  separated  heavings 
of  his  massive  chest  indicated  that  the  breath  of  life 
came  heavily  and  with  pain.  His  large  and  muscular 
arms  lay  outside  of  the  blanket ;  the  hands  were  clasped 
together  as  if  the  dying  forester  were  praying.  I  im 
agined  him,  however,  then  perfectly  senseless.  No  prayer 
passed  his  lips,  unless  when  for  an  instant  his  eyes  opened 
and  a  faint  motion  indicated  some  unexpressed  wish.  The 
fire  flickered  on  the  hearth  and  cast  a  red  glare  on  his 
marbling  features.  A  cold,  calm  smile,  more  as  of  con 
tented  scorn  than  anything  else,  seemed  to  be  settling  on 
his  face,  but  changed  suddenly  into  a  mournful  express 
ion,  and  as  suddenly  again  to  a  look  of  relief  from  pain. 
(I  wonder  if  a  phantom  had  passed  before  his  vision 
then  !)  These  frequent  changes  of  countenance  continu 
ed  for  a  long  time,  and  I  was  watching  them  with  anx 
iety,  when  he  suddenly  raised  his  right  arm  with  clenched 
fist  and  held  it  for  a  moment  in  the  air,  dropped  it  on 
the  blanket,  rigid  and  motionless,  then  a  shudder  as  of 
remorse  or  horror,  passed  through  his  frame,  his  lips 
quivered  an  instant,  and  then  the  fire  light  flickered  on  a 
changeless  face.  Willis,  who  had  been  standing  at  the 
foot  of  the  pallet,  with  folded  arms  and  fixed  gaze,  inter 
rupted  the  solemn  silence  in  the  cabin  with  his  deep- 
toned  recitation,  "Requiem  Eternam  dona  eis  Domine," 
4 


74  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THK    RIVER. 

We  buried  the  woodman  on  the  bank  of  the  river,  and 
ca-rved  a  stone  rudely  with  the  sign  of  salvation,  which 
appears  to  be  the  most  fitting  mark  for  the  resting  place 
of  clay,  whose  only  hope  is  in  the  cross. 

I  do  not  pretend  to  say  what  mercy  the  apostate  boy 
found  in  his  extremity,  yet  I  humbly  hoped  that  the 
prayers  of  a  father  and  a  mother,  and  mayhap  of  a  dearer 
one  than  father  or  mother,  might  have  been  heard  by  the 
God  who  has  promised  blessings  on  the  children  of  the 
righteous,  and  that  the  last  motion  of  the  hunter's  lips 
was  in  a  petition  that  found  acceptance. 


V. 

*atfr  of  t|e 


WILLIS  and  myself,  after  a  long  day's  hunt,  found 
ourselves  fifteen  miles  from  our  cabin,  and  the 
night  had  set  in  with  a  tempest.  But  before  it  was  quite 
dark,  we  had  hunted  the  country  round  for  a  safe  resting 
place,  and  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that  such  an  one 
was  not  to  be  found  in  the  district.  Ascending  a  high 
hill,  and  climbing  to  the  top  of  a  tree,  Willis  had  seen 
smoke  rising  over  the  forest  at  not  more  than  two  miles 
distance  in  the  North- West.  The  wind  was  North-West 
too,  and  it  was  cloudy,  and  occasional  snow  squalls  chilled 
us ;  but,  heading  the  wind,  we  hurried  on  toward  the 
smoke.  Hurry  means  something  different  in  those  wilds 
from  what  is  ordinarily  understood  by  it.  A  mile  in 
three  quarters  of  an  hour  is  extraordinary  travelling  over 
fallen  trees  and  through  dense  swamp  thickets.  A  mile 
in  two  hours  is  often  swifter  than  is  either  convenient  or 
possible. 

Darkness,  dense  and  unwelcome,  overtook  us  in  the 
forest,  and  now  we  dared  not  trust  the  wind  for  our  guide. 
We  did  not  know  North  from  South,  and  of  course  not 


78  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    RIVER. 

East  from  West ;  therefore,  it  was  not  safe  to  move  a 
step  after  we  lost  the  direction,  nor  when  we  found  it 
again  could  we  trust  ourselves  to  keep  it,  for  every  one 
has  heard  of  the  tendency  to  go  in  circles,  when  one  is 
lost  in  the  woods. 

After  satisfying  ourselves  which  was  North  and  which 
South,  by  an  examination  of  the  bark  of  the  trees,  we 
proceeded  on  a  plan  which  Joe  and  myself  had  frequent 
ly  practised  in  similar  cases.  I  would  go  on  in  the  proper 
direction  a  hundred  yards,  and  then  shout.  If  I  had 
pursued  the  right  course,  Joe  would  come  up.  If  not,  he, 
who  had  been  standing  facing  the  course,  would  direct  me 
till  I  was  due  North- West  from  him,  and  then  come  up 
to  me,  walk  directly  past  me,  and  I  would  face  his  course, 
and  again  set  him  right  if  he  wandered,  and  walk  up  to 
and  past  him.  So  we  kept  on  for  another  hour,  and 
found  we  had  not  mistaken.  A  little  to  our  right  we 
saw  through  the  forest  a  gleam  of  light,  and  Joe  imme 
diately  said,  "  It  must  be  the  cabin  of  old  Paint,  the  In 
dian.  You  know,  Black  said  he  lived  about  here,  and  this 
is  on  the  bank  of  a  stream,  just  as  he  described  it." 

So  we  approached,  and  were  glad  to  obtain  admission ; 
for  the  wind  was  blowing  almost  a  hurricane,  and  we  had 
been  forced  to  walk  so  slowly  that  we  were  chilled. 
"  The  Panther"  was  the  English  of  the  old  Indian's 
name,  and  this  had  been  shortened  by  the  hunters  to 
"  Paint"  (thus,  Panther,  Painter,  Paint,)  and  he  was  dis 
tinguished  from  his  son,  who  alone  occupied  the  cabin 
with  him,  as  old  Paint. 


DEATH    OF    THE    PANTHER.  79 

He  was  emphatically  old.  Certainly  not  less  than  four 
score  years  and  ten  had  left  their  marks  on  his  dark 
forehead.  There  was  no  hair  on  his  head.  Even  the 
scalp-lock  was  scattered  on  the  winds  of  years  ago  !  And 
that  night  the  old  man's  pilgrimage  was  ended.  The 
storms  of  a  century  had  not  bent  his  body ;  the  clouds  of 
a  hundred  years  had  not  dimmed  his  eagle  eye. 

As  we  entered  the  cabin,  he  lay  on  a  rude  deer-skin 
couch,  elevated  some  inches  from  the  floor.  His  quick 
glance  caught  in  an  instant  the  features  of  our  race,  and 
the  first  words  I  heard,  as  the  cabin-door  swung  on  its 
rough  hide  hinges,  were,  ""White  men, — white  men," 
muttered  in  a  low  tone  to  himself.  I  walked  up  toward 
him,  and  taking  his  hand  in  mine  felt  his  pulse — for  I 
saw  at  a  glance  that  he  was  sick.  But  I  could  scarcely 
distinguish  it,  so  very  feeble  was  it.  And  as  I  looked  in 
his  eye  I  knew  that  he  was  beyond  my  skill,  or  help  of 
man. 

"  Ha,  Ha !"  laughed  the  old  man  with  a  deep  guttural 
laugh.  "  The  Panther  will  not  leap  again,  you  think  ?" 
He  had  read  my  face,  and  I  replied  calmly,  "  I  fear  not, 
my  old  friend.  Your  life  has  been  a  long  one,  and  some 
what  adventurous  I  imagine.  But  you'll  not  have  to 
struggle  much  longer." 

In  a  little  while  we  were  lying  asleep  on  the  floor  by 
the  fire.  It  was  after  midnight  when  I  awoke.  The  fire 
in  the  stone  chimney  was  blazing  brightly,  and  the  whole 
cabin  gleamed  in  the  light.  The  younger  Indian  was 
standing  by  the  side  of  his  father,  whose  giant  limbs  were 


80  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    RIVER. 

straightened  on  his  couch.  I  thought  he  was  dead,  and 
laying  my  hand  gently  on  Joe,  he  started  up  and  watched 
with  me  the  scene.  A  moment  undeceived  us  as  to  the 
old  man's  death,  for  his  eye  was  flashing  with  the  fitful 
glare  that  precedes  the  glaze  of  death.  He  spoke  some 
words  occasionally  in  a  low  and  distinct  voice,  and  to  my 
surprise  used  the  English  language  instead  of  the  musical 
dialect  of  his  nation.  I  soon  saw  that  his  mind  was  wan 
dering  among  the  scenes  of  years  long  gone,  and  that  he 
fancied  himself  sitting  by  the  fire  and  telling  to  his  son 
the  stories  of  hard-fought  fights  and  the  golden  days  of 
his  tribe.  There  was  one  eloquent  story  that  I  gathered 
from  his  broken  English,  wherein  he  told  his  son  of  the 
manner  in  which  he  first  met  and  carried  off  his  mother. 
Then  he  spoke  of  her.  «  The  Fawn,"  I  believe,  was  the 
translation  of  the  name  he  gave  her,  and  his  eye  flashed 
vividly  as  he  recounted  her  beauties  and  his  love.  It  is 
not  strange  that  that  early  love  of  the  heart  should  come 
back,  as  it  so  often  does,  when  the  dim  eye  is  brightening 
with  its  last  light.  It  is  not  strange  that  the  freshest 
fountains  the  heart  has  ever  known  in  its  wastes,  should 
bubble  up  anew  when  the  life-blood  is  growing  stagnant. 
It  is  not  strange  that  a  bright  memory  should  come  to  a 
dying  old  man,  as  the  sunshine  breaks  across  the  hills  at 
the  close  of  a  stormy  day ;  nor  that  in  the  light  of  that 
ray,  the  very  clouds  that  made  the  day  dark,  should  grow 
gloriously  beautiful. 

"  Air,  air  !     I  can't  breathe,"  moaned  the  dying  war 
rior.     His  son  stalked  to  the  door,  threw  it  wide  open, 


DEATH    OF    THE    PANTHER.  81 

and  returned  to  his  statue-like  position  by  the  side  of  his 
father.  Turning  on  his  side  the  old  man  looked  out  of 
the  door.  The  moon  had  risen,  and  the  clouds  were 
gone,  and  the  stream  was  brawling  aloud  to  the  wind, 
which  was  even  wilder  than  in  the  early  evening.  I  saw 
the  moon-beams  glancing  on  the  water-fall  before  the 
door,  and  the  old  man  saw  it  too  and  smiled.  I  saw  that 
smile  stealing  across  his  face,  and,  the  flickering  fire-light 
perhaps  deceived  me,  but  I  was  certain  that  it  was  a  bit 
ter  smile  before  it  left  his  rugged  countenance.  Perhaps 
the  memory  of  a  boyhood  in  the  forest,  of  a  seat  by  the 
brookside  with  an  Indian  girl,  of  a  gay  glad  heart,  gave 
place  to  memories  of  a  race  that  passed  away  like  the 
dreams  of  that  childhood,  of  a  life  that  was  closing  among 
scenes  unworthy  the  Panther  warrior  of  the  Mohawks. 

At  length  he  spoke ;  and  now  in  the  low  musical  lan 
guage  of  his  earlier  years.  I  could  understand  but  a 
word  here  and  there,  and  the  son  afterwards  translated 
for  me  the  last  words  of  his  father  : 

"  I  have  no  song  to  sing,  my  son.  My  life  has  been 
like  yonder  stream,  flowing  along  in  darkness  and  over 
rocks  and  down  steep  hill  sides.  Once,  only  once,  there 
was  a  bright  still  place  in  its  current,  like  yonder  place 
where  the  stream  rests  awhile  in  the  moonlight,  before 
the  door,  and  then  falls  over  the  rocks  again,  and  passes 
on  in  the  forest. 

"  I  will  tell  The  Fawn  that  her  son  lingers  yet  on  the 
river  bank,  and  sometimes  we  will  come  to  the  cabin  and 
talk  with  him.     The  snow  is  deep  on  her  grave  by  the 
4* 


82  THE    OLD    HOUSE   BY   THE    RIVER. 

shore  of  the  great  lake.  I  will  go  there  and  see  it  before 
I  go  to  the  great  council  of  our  tribe  up  yonder  !  The 
winds  moan  over  her.  The  waves  dash  up  about  the 
mound.  I  built  it  high.  I  dug  her  grave  deep — deep — 
deep." 

His  voice  ceased  suddenly,  and  he  lay  motionless, 
looking  up  at  the  rude  covering  of  the  hut.  After  some 
time,  seeing  that  he  was  silent,  I  turned  over  and  slept 
till  daylight.  We  then  rose,  and  walking  across  the 
cabin  found  that  he  was  sleeping,  and  left  him  thus.  He 
never  spoke  again.  Before  that  night  he  had  joined  his 
fathers. 

I  have  fancied  a  scene  in  the  hunting  grounds  of  his 
tribe  that  day.  There  was  a  gathering  in  a  lofty  lodge, 
where  the  old  chieftains  sat  in  solemn  council.  And, 
at  a  moment  of  silence,  a  shout  was  heard  without,  and 
all  eyes  were  turned  toward  the  entrance.  A  hand 
thrust  aside  the  deer-skin  that  hung  across  it,  and  the 
giant  form  of  the  Panther  stalked  across  the  ring,  and 
took  the  seat  which  had  been  left  vacant  for  the  last 
great  chief  of  the  Mohawks. 


VI. 

in 


all. 


AMONG-  our  favorite  friends  we  number  the  family  of 
Mr.  B ,  who  is  the  near  neighbor  of  Mrs. , 

(our  Lucy,)  in  the  city,  and  who,  with  all  his  house,  is 
ever  welcome  at  the  Hall.  For  a  week  past  they  have 
been  with  us,  and  the  house  has  been  unusually  gay. 
The  morning  breaks  with  the  shouts  of  children  on  the 
lawn,  waking  up  the  sun,  whose  face,  peering  over  the 
park  trees,  they  love  to  see,  unused  as  they  are  to  look 
on  him  smiling  so  gloriously ;  and  the  whole  day  long 
they  shout  around  the  halls  as  freely  as  if  in  the  woods. 
For  somehow  they  do  not  seem  to  have  the  fear  of  Willis 
or  myself  before  their  eyes,  but  greet  the  appearance  of 
either  of  us  with  new  vociferations  of  delight. 

Tom,  the  oldest  boy,  is  a  rare  genius.  He  is  at  home 
from  school  in  the  autumn  holidays,  and  takes  pleasure 
in  showing  the  acquirements  of  his  schooling.  These 
consist  chiefly  in  those  departments  of  which  he  ought  to 
be  entirely  ignorant,  and  it  is  already  manifest  that  he  is 
much  keener  at  a  practical  joke  than  a  verse  in  Virgil, 
and  can  see  much  farther  into  the  mysteries  of  fun  and 
frolic  than  into  equations  or  conic  sections. 


86  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    RIVER. 

We  mounted  him  between  us  for  an  afternoon  ride, 
and  thinking  him  a  novice,  Stephen  the  groom  gave  him 
Bright,  Lucy's  gentlest  horse,  and  added  all  sorts  of 
cautions  as  to  his  management  of  the  check  rein.  Im 
agine  our  astonishment  at  seeing  the  boy  lift  the  horse 
at  the  park  hedge,  instead  of  taking  the  avenue  gate,  and 
wave  his  cap  at  us  as  he  cleared  it  and  dashed  off  for  the 
village,  where  we  found  him  half  an  hour  later,  bargain 
ing  with  Hugh  Stimson,  the  landlord  at  the  tavern,  for 
a  pair  of  setter  pups,  that  he  values  at  about  ten  times 
their  worth.  Joe  couldn't  have  the  heart  to  scold  the 
boy,  but  I  threatened  him  so  sincerely,  that  he  rode  home 
by  my  side  very  demurely ;  only  once  managing,  instead 
of  riding  around  a  drove  of  sheep  as  Joe  and  myself  did, 
to  involve  himself  in  the  centre  of  the  drove,  and  com 
mence  a  series  of  curvets,  to  the  terror  of  the  owner  and 
the  hopeless  dispersion  of  the  sheep.  It  was  impossible 
to  blame  the  boy,  for  he  had  managed  it  so  adroitly  as 
to  throw  all  the  fault  on  the  drove,  and  claim  all  the 
credit  to  himself  of  his  extrication  without  accident. 

"  Mr.  Phillips,  wasn't  that  well  done  now  ?"  said  he, 
with  a  face  full  of  fun. 

"  Capitally,"  said  I,  with  a  face  as  full  of  seriousness 
as  I  could  make  it ;  "  but  look  out  next  time,  my  boy, 

or  Mrs. will  not  be  apt  to  trust  you  with  Bright 

again." 

This  intimation  served  to  quiet  him  for  the  rest  of  the 
ride,  but  when  we  reached  home,  he  was  full  of  accounts 
of  the  wonderful  things  he  had  seen  and  been  a  part  of, 


GHOSTS    IN    THE    HALL.  87 

to  the  gaping  mouths  and  eyes  of  his  beautiful  little  sis 
ters,  who  are  as  full  of  fun  as  he,  but  not  so  free  and 
easy  with  it. 

The  dinner  bell  interrupted  his  stories ;  but  after  din 
ner  he  got  them  into  a  corner,  and  when  their  bed  time 
came,  he  was  holding  forth  in  so  loud  a  voice  that  I,  who 
had  been  attracted  to  listen  by  the  open  eyes  of  little 
Lucy,  heard  something  about  a  monster  that  haunted 
the  park,  which  he  had  caught  sight  of,  and  which  he 
warned  them  would  catch  them  if  they  ever  went  out  of 
reach  of  call  from  the  house,  or  ventured  ever  to  tell 
their  mother  what  he  had  told  them. 

So  little  Lucy  and  her  twin  sister  Maria,  or  Byrie,  as 
she  is  called,  went  trembling  up  stairs  to  their  room, 
which  was  across  the  hall  from  Tom's,  and  whether  they 
went  to  sleep  or  not,  depended  much  on  the  firmness  of 
their  little  brains  to  expel  unpleasant  fancies. 

At  all  events,  by  eleven  o'clock,  Joe  and  myself  were 
alone  in  the  library ;  and  the  old  house  was  quiet,  while 
we  smoked  and  chatted  before  the  fire. 

Just  at  that  hour  a  scream  rang  through  the  house  to 
the  very  cellars,  and  we  sprang  to  our  feet  as  the  library 
door  opened,  and  the  kitchen  servants  rushed  in  en 
masse,  led  by  the  coachman,  and  backed  up  in  the  rear 
by  Anthony.  The  cook  was  as  blue  as  blanc  mange, 
though  rather  darker,  and  she  spoke  first. 

"  If  you  please — Mr.  Joseph,  Mr.  Philip,  the — the — 
the  devil's  here  sure — I  saw  him  myself." 

"  What  does  he  look  like,  Susan  ?" 


88  THE  OLD  HO  USB  BY'  THE  RIVER. 

"  He  had  horns,  sir ;  and  was  black,  sir ;  black  as — as 
— as  Stephen,  sir." 

"  Yes  sir,"  broke  in  Stephen,  without  in  the  least  re 
senting  the  odious  comparison;  " and  he  had  claws,  sir." 

"  Ah — claws — a  new  feature  in  the  prince  of  darkness. 
Did  you  ever  hear  of  his  scratching  any  one,  Philip  ?" 

"  Can't  say  that  I  have,  Joe ;  but  let's  inquire  about 
this.  Anthony,  what  does  all  this  mean?" 

"  Don't  know,  sir.  I  didn't  see  anything  of  it.  We 
were  going  up  stairs,  Stephen  ahead,  and  Susan  next, 
when  Susan  screamed  and  fell  against  Henry ;  and  that 
knocked  us  all  in  a  heap ;  and  the  light  went  out,  and 
they  all  rushed  in  here." 

"Well,  keep  quiet  awhile,  all  of  you,  and  we'll  see 
what's  going  on  up  stairs." 

I  accordingly  ascended  the  staircase  very  cautiously, 
without  a  light,  but  found  all  quiet  above ;  and,  return 
ing,  sent  the  servants  to  their  rooms ;  and  the  hall  again 
sank  into  stillness,  and  Joe  and  myself  resumed  our  con 
versation. 

Fifteen  minutes  afterward  I  heard  a  queer  sound  on 
the  second  floor,  and  stole  out  and  up  the  staircase.  The 
moon  was  past  the  full,  and  shone  in  at  the  large  bow 
window,  lighting  the  broad  hall  so  that  everything  was 
distinctly  visible.  On  the  walls  hung  the  trophies  of 
many  a  chase,  and  in  the  dark  oak  cases  were  many  rare 
and  curious  specimens  of  birds  and  fish,  and  strange 
products  of  many  lands.  But  in  the  centre  of  the  hall, 
on  the  billiard  table,  was  an  object  of  considerable  inter- 


GHOSTS    IN    THE    HALL.  89 

est  that  puzzled  me  not  a  little.  It  seemed  to  be  a  bear, 
but  had  the  horns  of  a  stag,  and  withal  it  was  very  indus 
triously  poking  a  long  Spanish  lance  at  the  door  of  the 
room  in  which  the  children,  Lucy  and  Ryrie,  were  sleep 
ing.  From  their  room  proceeded,  as  yet,  no  sounds ;  but 
a  moment  after  my  head  rose  above  the  level  of  the  hall 
floor,  I  heard  their  door  latch  move,  and  the  lance  was 
suddenly  withdrawn,  while  the  bear  or  nondescript  ani 
mal  retreated  into  the  bright  moonlight  in  the  centre  of 
the  table.  Little  Lucy  opened  the  door,  and  put  her 
head  out.  I  intended  to  step  forward  quickly  enough  to 
prevent  the  fright  which  I  feared  would  ensue ;  but  the 
little  fairy,  before  she  looked  around  the  hall,  caught 
sight  of  my  face.  I  winked,  and  she  saw  me ;  for  she 
was  close  by  the  head  of  the  stairs,  and  it  was  very  light ; 
and  the  next  moment  I  pointed  toward  the  billiard  table. 
The  little  one  was  as  strong-minded  as  a  woman,  and 
saw  at  once  that  there  was  some  hoax  in  the  bear-skin. 
She  turned  back,  and  calling  Ryrie  to  her  aid,  the  two 
rushed  out  together ;  sprang  on  to  the  table ;  one  seized 
the  horns,  and  the  other  the  bear  skin,  and  exposed  poor 
Tom  to  the  moonlight,  utterly  discomfited.  Ryrie  seized 
the  lance,  and  drove  him  to  his  room  at  the  point  of  it, 
while  little  Lucy  rushed  to  the  head  of  the  stairs  to  kiss 
me,  and  Joe  who  by  this  time  had  come  up  to  investi 
gate  the  racket,  which  had  already  caused  the  other  doors 
to  open,  and  woke  the  whole  family  to  see  the  little  fai 
ries  flitting  about  in  the  moonlight. 

All  was  soon  quiet  and  we  returned  -to  the  library,  and 


90  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THH    RIVER. 

when  the  clock  was  lifting  its  two  hands  wearily  and  im 
ploringly,  as  if  fatigued  with  its  twenty-four  hours  labor, 
Joe  rose  from  the  large  chair,  in  which  he  had  dozed  since 
the  occurrence  up  stairs,  and  lazily  striding  back  and 
forth  across  the  floor,  demanded  of  me  somewhat  as  fol 
lows  : 

"  Philip,  do  you  believe  in  ghosts  ?" 

"  Firmly,  Joseph." 

"  Did  you  ever  see  one  ?" 

'  Once." 

"  When,  where,  and  how?" 

"  In  Princeton.  The  ghost  sat  in  my  old  rocker, 
while  I  was  lying  on  the  bed.  I  awoke  and  the  ghost 
looked  at  me,  smiled,  lifted  his  hand,  and  when  I  moved 
slowly  disappeared." 

"  Were  you  sick  ?" 

"  As  well  as  I  am  now." 

"  Do  you  believe  that  ghosts  are  ghosts,  or  only  spec 
tral  illusions  ?" 

"  I  don't  recognize  the  distinction.  My  eyes  are  given 
me  to  see  with,  and  if  my  eyes  tell  me  I  see  anything,  you 
may  argue  with  me  till  you  are  tired,  and  I  will  believe 
my  eyes  first.  Beside  all  that  Joe,  you  believe  in  ghosts, 
and  so  does  every  one  else.  I  never  saw  a  man  or  woman 
yet,  that  was  perfectly  certain  he  or  she  would  not  see  a 
ghost  in  any  dark  night,  especially  in  the  neighborhood 
of  a  graveyard  or  the  scene  of  a  murder.  And  you, 
with  all  your  coolness,  never  yet  went  across  the  scream 
ing  hollow,  without  a  firm  conviction  that  before  you 


GHOSTS    IN    THE    HALL.  91 

reached  the  village  you  would  hear  the  dead  man's  yell, 
or  see  him  with  his  bleeding  throat." 

"  Phil — don't  talk  in  that  way,  it  makes  me  uncom 
fortable." 

"  I  told  you  so,  Joe.  You  can't  even  hear  ghosts 
talked  about  at  this  time  of  the  night  with  any  degree 
of  comfort,  and  if  you  should  hear  a  strange  sound  now, 
you  would  possibly  be  scared  like  a  child." 

"  Bah,  Phil ;  not  so  bad  as  that.  But,  hark what 

was  that  ?" 

It  was  a  low  moan,  and  it  was  repeated — a  long  groan, 
ending  in  a  broken  wail.  I  have  seldom  heard  a  sound 
more  thrilling.  Joe  looked  at  me  for  a  moment  im 
agining  that  I  was  making  the  noise  to  frighten  him.  But, 
seeing  my  undisguised  look  of  astonishment,  he  sat  down 
to  listen  for  a  repetition  of  the  sound. 

It  came.  A  moan  of  exhausted  agony,  and  apparently 
under  our  library  window.  I  sprang  to  it  and  threw  up 
the  sash  and  dashed  the  shutter  open.  The  cause  was 
manifest  now.  Under  the  window  lay  John,  the  finest 
dog  in  the  kennel,  lifting  his  keen  eye  to  me,  as  I  looked 
out,  and  expressing  a  mournful  joy  that  he  had  succeed 
ed  in  attracting  attention.  I  sprang  out  of  the  window 
and  lifted  him  in  to  Joe,  who  took  him  in  his  arms  and 
carried  him  to  the  wolf-skin  rug  before  the  fire. 

The  dog  had  been  ill  for  several  days,  but  we  had  not 
thought  him  seriously  so.  It  was  evident  now  that  he 
was  dying ;  and,  for  the  memory  of  old  days  in  the  forest 
and  a  hundred  gallant  chases,  we  loved  the  dog  as  one  of 


92  THE    OLD    HOrsSK    BY    THE    RIVER. 

ourselves.  He  was,  among  other  dogs,  like  one  of  a  race 
of  kings.  I  never  knew  how  old  he  was,  but  his  teeth 
indicated  that  he  had  gnawed  a  great  many  bones.  He 
was  shivering  with  cold,  and  we  wrapped  him  up  in  a  pile 
of  clothing,  and  poured  some  brandy  down  his  throat. 
Perhaps  it  was  as  bad  for  him  as  it  sometimes  proves  to 
be  for  others  less  sensible  than  he,  for  though  he  acknowl 
edged  with  a  smile  of  his  fast  dulling  eye  the  kindness 
which  he  knew  was  meant,  he  nevertheless  dropped  his 
head  feebly  on  the  rug,  and  slumbered  his  life  away  in 
fitful  dreams.  Occasionally  he  languidly  opened  one  eye 
and  smiled  at  Joe,  and  at  length  shivered,  and  stretched 
himself  out,  so  as  to  lay  his  head  at  the  feet  of  Willis. 

"  John,"  said  Joe,  but  the  dog  was  still.  It  was  the 
first  time  he  had  refused  to  obey  that  voice,  and  of  course 
he  was  dead. 

"  Phil,"  said  Joe,  at  length,  "  the  dog  was  true  in 
death,  as  he  has  been  in  life.  I  think  he  would  have 
lived  under  the  window  till  daylight,  if  only  for  the  sake 
of  seeing  us  once  more  before  he  died.  Let  him  lie 
there  till  morning.  We  will  bury  him  kindly,  near  Leo. 
Hark  !  What  was  that  ?  This  is  a  night  of  strange 
sounds." 

He  threw  up  the  window  again,  and  we  heard  with 
singular  distinctness  and  clearness,  coming  up  from  the 
village  church,  four  miles  off,  the  sound  of  the  passing 
bell. 

It  had  not  reached  the  first  pause,  and  so  we  listened 
and  counted ;  ten,  twenty,  thirty,  and  so  on  up  to  sev- 


GHOSTS    IN    THE    HALL.  93 

enty ;  and  then,  as  if  it  were  difficult  to  number  those 
weary,  later  years,  the  old  bell  sounded  heavily  three. 
Seventy  three !  There  was  but  one  man  in  the  neigh 
borhood  that  numbered  so  many  years,  and  we  knew, 
therefore,  that  Solomon  Pierson  had  gone  to  his  reward. 

With  no  slight  emotion  we  closed  the  window,  and 
began  to  talk  of  him  and  his  cotemporaries,  who  had 
been  the  elders  of  the  country  since  we  were  boys,  and 
whose  histories  belong  to  this  record  as  part  of  the  his 
tory  of  our  younger  years,  and  of  the  families  we  knew 
and  loved.  These  old  men  had  been  our  friends  and 
counsellors,  and  we  had  been  taught  to  respect  them, 
and  to  love  them,  from  our  earliest  recollection. 

Some  of  the  pleasantest  and  most  distinct  pictures 
which  we  now  recall,  are  of  scenes  in  the  old  church,  that 
stands  yet  among  the  hills  at  the  end  of  the  long  village 
street,  surrounded  by  the  graves  of  three  generations. 
Of  these  pictures  and  scenes  I  shall  have  occasion  to 
speak  in  another  part  of  this  volume. 

There  was  old  John  Maclean,  with  his  stern  eyes  and 
gaunt  frame,  and  William  Denton,  with  bent  shoulders 
and  trembling  gait,  but  a  kindly  smile  on  his  lip ;  and 
there  were  a  dozen  others  whose  faces  awed  us  on  a 
Sunday  morning,  with  their  calm  solemnity. 

Solomon  Pierson  was  the  brother  of  Adam  Pierson, 
the  tenant  and  owner  of  the  Hickory  Glen  farm ;  and  as 
we  talked  of  him  we  remembered  the  reverence  with 
which  we  looked  up  to  the  old  men  who  preceded  him  in 
the  elder's  pew  in  the  church,  and  one  by  one  they  re- 


94  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    RIVER. 

turned  to  us  as  vividly  as  if  their  ghosts  had  come  to  the 
old  library  in  which  they  had  often  been  seated  while 
they  lived,  seeking  advice  on  earthly  matters  from  Judge 
Willis,  while  he  as  eagerly  sought  from  them  the  words 
of  spiritual  advice  which  their  experience  fitted  them 
well  to  give. 

Chiefest  in  dignity  of  character  among  those  old  men 
was  Simon  Gray,  and  we  talked  long  of  him  before  we 
slept.  And  after  Joe  had  sought  his  room,  and  the 
company  which  always  visits  him  in  dreams,  I  lay  awake 
and  remembered  him.  There  came  across  my  half-sleep 
ing  vision  a  picture  of  the  old  church,  its  square  pews  and 
round  pulpit,  and  high  sounding-board ;  and  the  old  min 
ister,  and  the  upturned  faces  of  the  elders  on  his  right ; 
and  then  I  saw  Simon  Gray's  calm  features,  speaking, 
in  their  serene  quiet,  all  the  holy  thoughts  that  filled  his 
soul ;  and  then  I  heard  the  old  man  as  on  a  bright  sum 
mer  Sabbath  morning,  well  remembered  through  the 
long,  long  years,  when,  the  precentor  being  absent,  he 
took  his  place,  and  in  a  voice  whose  very  age  and  feeble 
ness  made  it  musical,  sang  the  sublime  words  of  David 
to  the  sublime  notes  of  Luther. 

It  was  then  that,  like  a  flash  of  lightning,  the  truth 
came  into  my  soul  that  Simon  Gray  was  dead  '  in  the 
long  gone  years,5  and  his  grave  was  green  in  the  valley 
yard  a  score  of  summers  ago.  "  Poor  old  Simon  Gray," 
said  the  silent  thought  in  my  heart,  "  Rich  old  Simon 
Gray,"  said  the  heart,  responding,  for  he  went  to  a  lordly 
mansion  and  countless  treasures. 


GHOSTS    IN    THE    HALJL.  95 

One  passage  in  the  history  of  Simon  Gray  I  most  love 
to  recall.  It  was  on  the  evening  of  that  same  bright 
Sabbath  of  which  I  spoke,  that  the  old  man  left  his  home 
to  go  down  into  the  hollow  and  attend  a  prayer-meeting 
in  the  red  school-house,  which  was  appointed  for  "  early 
candle-light." 

You  might  have  seen  the  evidence  of  the  appointment 
under  his  arm ;  for  the  package  which  he  had  there  con 
tained  neither  more  nor  less  than  two  antique  silver 
candlesticks,  a  wooden  block  with  a  hole  in  it,  and  three 
of  his  daughter's  best  dipped  candles.  The  candlesticks 
and  two  of  the  candles  were  for  the  desk,  where  the 
minister  would  sit  if  he  came,  and  the  block  of  wood  and 
the  other  candle  were  for  his  own  use,  as  he  should  stand 
up  and  hold  the  psalm-book  in  the  one  hand,  and  the 
candle  in  the  other,  and  should  lead  the  little  assembly 
in  a  song  of  praise. 

He  was  a  noble  man,  and  that  was  a  picture  worthy  a 
master  hand,  as  he  stood  on  the  brow  of  the  hill,  and  the 
sun's  red  rays  flushed  his  grand  features.  Tall  once, 
but  considerably  bowed  by  age,  he  seemed  to  have  a 
right  to  stand  on  the  brow  of  a  hill  and  look  at  the  world 
and  the  sky.  His  face  was  a  study.  It  possessed  all  the 
noble  features  of  a  long  and  pure  line  of  ancestry,  for 
Simon  Gray  was  of  good  Scotch  blood,  and  his  genealogy 
he  could  trace  from  the  Comyns  on  the  one  side,  and  the 
Douglasses  on  the  other.  There  was  a  look  of  modesty 
in  his  noble  features.  Irreverent  as  it  may  seem,  I  shall 
nevertheless  not  be  misunderstood  by  those  who  remera- 


96  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    RIVER. 

her  their  childish  impressions,  when  I  say,  that  until  I 
was  six  or  seven  years  of  age,  I  involuntarily  associated 
those  features  with  all  my  ideas  of  the  Deity ;  and  I  be 
lieve  I  had  some  help  from  that  childish  profanity  in 
subsequently  getting  a  faint  idea  of  the  good  and  great 
God,  and  of  his  benevolence  and  justice. 

He  stood  on  the  hill  and  looked  into  the  valley  below. 
For  sixty  years  of  manhood,  and  for  eighty  years  of  life, 
he  had  not  been  away  from  that  valley  in  heart.  He  had 
travelled,  visited  many  parts  of  this  country  and  the 
homes  of  his  fathers  in  old  Scotland,  but  he  had  returned 
with  never-faltering  and  always  willing  steps,  to  the  old 
house  on  the  Eastern  slope  of  the  hill,  and  each  time 
had  come  back  with  grateful  love  of  his  home.  Forty 
years  ago  he  had  been  one  of  a  long  procession  that  went 
down  the  hill  and  into  the  churchyard  at  its  foot;  and 
never  a  day  since  then,  had  he  crossed  the  hill-top  with 
out  pausing  as  now,  and  seeing  plainer  and  plainer  each 
year  as  his  eyes  grew  dimmer,  the  long  sad  line,  and  the 
grave-mound  singled  out  of  all  the  crowd  under  which 
she  slept.  She — oh,  she  was  dear  to  him,  and  yet,  yet 
dear  to  his  old  heart  in  the  memories  of  a  golden  life. 
He  had  won  her  in  her  fair  young  girlhood.  She  had 
slept  on  his  bosom  for  twenty  years,  and  it  was  harder 
than  the  idlers  around  him  dreamed,  to  lay  that  darling 
head,  yet  loaded  with  brown  tresses,  on  the  ground  for  a 
pillow,  and  cover  her  over  with  damp  sods.  He  shud 
dered  as  she  lay  there,  calmly  and  profoundly  asleep, 
and  he  shuddered  one  instant  now,  as  he  stood  on  the 


GHOSTS    IN    THE    HALL.  9*7 

hill- top  and  looked  down  at  her  grave,  and  thought  of  the 
dark  night  that  was  coming ;  and  how  she  was  to  lie  out 
there  all  night,  cold  and  cheerless,  under  the  damp  dews 
and  the  stars.  But  the  next  instant  a  smile  stole  over 
his  face,  and  he  lifted  his  hat  from  his  head,  and  his  long 
gray  hair  straggling  down  his  shoulders,  gleamed  for  a 
little  like  waves  of  light,  as  he  bowed  his  head  and  prayed 
aloud. 

That  was  the  scene  which  comes  now  to  my  recollection 
as  freshly  as  of  old.  I  was  walking  homeward  from  the 
house  of  a  sick  neighbor  of  the  old  elder,  and  my  feet 
made  no  noise,  as  I  came  over  the  hill  behind  him.  His 
form  stood  out  against  the  sky  as  I  came  up  the  hill,  and 
when  I  approached  him  he  was  uttering  in  a  clear  voice 
some  sublime  petitions.  Sublime,  because  they  were  ut 
tered  where  nothing  was  between  them  and  heaven.  I 
know  they  were  heard  and  answered.  I  knew  that  the 
sun-light  would  no  more  certainly  come  back  on  the  mor 
row,  than  would  those  answers  return  into  the  old  man's 
heart ;  and  from  that  hour  to  this,  I  have  regarded  that 
valley  as  holy  ground,  and  I  have  never  entered  it  with 
out  the  feeling  that  I  was  entering  a  hallowed  atmos 
phere,  and  the  wild  flowers  gathered  there  seem  to  me 
redolent  to-day  of  the  old  man's  blessing. 

Simon  Gray  died  not  very  long  after  that.  He  was 
buried  in  the  churchyard  by  the  side  of  his  wife.  The 
stone  which  records  her  name,  says  she  was  but  thirty-six 
when  she  left  him,  while  that  which  stands  at  the  head 
of  his  long  grave,  tells  the  curious  reader  that  he  was 


98  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    RIVER. 

eighty-one.  But  again  we  are  thankful  that  they  measure 
not  years  as  we  do,  in  the  land  of  their  present  abiding, 
and  I  am  confident  that  they  often  stand  together  now 
on  some  hill-top  of  that  country,  and  look  with  earnest, 
gentle  eyes  down  into  the  valleys  of  this.  And  of  a  sum 
mer  morning  when  the  church-bell  is  tolling  across  the 
hollow  and  up  the  hill  sides  near  their  old  home,  I 
sometimes  stand  on  the  spot  where  I  saw  the  old  elder 
standing  in  that  summer  evening  light,  and  feel  a  rushing 
tenderness  come  over  me,  a  spell  of  holy  influences,  soft 
ening  and  soothing  and  blessing  me ;  and  at  such  mo 
ments  I  cannot  doubt  that  he  is  looking  down  on  me  with 
his  dear  old  looks  of  love  ! 


VII. 

Crnis*  0f 


"  TTTHERE'S  the  wind,  skipper  ?"  asked  the  Doctor, 

»  V  lifting  his  head  above  the  companion-way,  and 
gazing  with  half  open  eyes  toward  the  fly  which  was 
hanging  motionless  from  the  slender  topmast. 

The  skipper  was  myself;  the  hour,  two  o'clock;  the 
night,  starry  and  still.  The  watch  had  been  a  stupid 
one,  and  I  was  half  dozing  as  I  lay  on  deck,  wrapped  in  a 
large  coat,  on  which  the  mist  of  the  night  had  settled  in 
great  drops. 

"  No  wind  yet,  Doctor ;  but  this  is  the  third  day  of 
calm,  and  we  must  have  a  breeze  soon.  Turn  in  again, 
and  I  will  call  you  at  daybreak." 

The  doctor's  head  vanished,  and  I  was  again  alone. 
But  now  somewhat  aroused,  I  paced  the  deck  awhile, 
turning  over  in  my  mind  a  thousand  fancies  about  the 
night,  and  the  ocean,  and  the  stars ;  watching  the  light  of 
Montauk  over  the  starboard  quarter,  and  the  various 
lights  in  the  northern  horizon,  and  waiting  anxiously  for 
the  wind  that  should  carry  us  out  of  sight  of  them  all. 

At  length  Watch  Hill  winked  once  or  twice  when  it 


102  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY   THE    RIVER. 

should  not ; — and  Stonington,  which  ought  to  be  station 
ary,  vanished  and  re-appeared,  and  vanished  again.  The 
signs  were  good.  A  half  hour  later,  the  mist  on  my 
forehead  felt  cold ;  and  as  I  lifted  my  wet  finger  in  the 
air,  I  felt  the  coming  breeze.  Calling  Dick,  who  lay 
coiled  under  the  foresail,  we  got  up  the  canvas,  and  as 
the  boom  swung  off,  its  heavy  creaking  ceased,  and 
deeper  sleep  than  ever  fell  on  the  closed  eyelids  in  the 
cabin. 

Now  came  the  breeze  out  of  the  nor'-west.  Light  at 
first,  but  steady,  and  steadily  increasing.  She  drew 
slowly  through  the  water  for  awhile ;  but  the  ripple 
around  her  bow  increased  in  music ;  and  at  length  she 
sprang  off  like  a  bird  that  knew  her  course,  and  was  glad 
to  be  away  on  it. 

There  was  now  some  pleasure  in  that  lonesome  watch ; 
in  standing  at  the  tiller,  and  guiding  that  beautiful  craft, 
with  its  precious  burden,  out  into  the  great  sea.  How 
she  leaped  through  the  water — how  like  a  living  being 
she  breasted  the  waves !  Now  the  foam  flew  from  her 
weather  bow.  Now  the  green  curl  of  the  wave  was 
above  the  lee  rail  as  she  rushed  along.  We  were  away 
at  last,  and  the  gallant  little  craft  seemed  to  feel,  with 
us,  the  desire  to  lose  sight  of  land  and  be  out  in  the  blue 
waters  of  the  Atlantic. 

Five  hours  later,  as  she  dashed  through  a  huge  wave, 
and  swung  down  the  side  of  the  next  one,  I  heard  a  sud 
den  crash  below  deck,  and  forthwith  the  head  of  the  Doc 
tor  again  emerged  from  the  forward  hatch.  Never  was 


THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  PHANTOM.  103 

surprise  more  clearly  depicted  on  any  countenance.  One 
moment  he  glanced  around  at  the  horizon,  failing  in  that 
view  to  catch  the  dim  line  of  Block  Island  in  the  north 
west,  and  then  broke  forth  his  exclamations  :  "  JEheu  me 
miserable — oh,  Joe — Joe  Willis — oh,  Philip,  my  boy — 
where  away  is  the  land,  Phil  ?  Only  look,  boys — come 
up  here,  will  you  now !" 

"  How  can  we  get  up,  Doctor,  when  you  fill  the  hatch 
way?"  said  the  voice  of  Joe  underneath;  and  at  the 
same  instant  the  Doctor,  impelled  by  some  force  invisible 
to  me,  was  suddenly  elevated  to  the  deck,  and  into  the 
lee  scuppers,  where  he  lay  in  astonished  silence.  Before 
he  had  time  to  recover  himself,  I  seized  the  excellent 
chance  offered  me,  and  letting  her  fall  off  the  least  bit 
in  the  world,  brought  her  up  again,  and,  by  the  move 
ment,  brought  the  Doctor,  puffing  and  blowing,  in  a  flood 
of  clear  green  water,  aft  almost  to  my  side,  when  he 
seized  the  lee  shrouds,  and  broke  forth  again  in  lamenta 
ble  howlings. 

Joe  was,  by  this  time,  standing  on  the  weather  rail, 
holding  by  the  foremast  stays,  swinging  to  the  swing  of 
the  sea,  his  hair  flowing  out  on  the  wind,  his  eyes  full 
of  life  and  fun,  and  his  voice  helping  the  Doctor's  la 
ments.  The  latter  soon  found  his  way  forward  and  be 
low  deck ;  and  the  former  came  aft  to  relieve  me  at  the 
tiller. 

It  was  a  glorious  day.  The  white  caps  of  the  waves 
gleamed  around  us,  and  the  sea  danced  with  delight  as 
the  wind  flew  over  it.  I  threw  off  my  coat.  Peter  and 


104  THH    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    RIVER. 

Dick  cleaned  the  deck,  and  brought  up  the  cushions. 
The  little  silver  bell  in  the  cabin  announced  that  the 
ladies  were  ready  to  see  us,  and  I  sent  Dick  below  to  in 
vite  them  up. 

A  pleasant  group  we  were  on  the  deck.     There  was 

Mrs. ,  (our  Lucy,)  and  her  friend,  Miss , 

in  their  gay  morning  dresses;  Mr.  -  ,  (the  excel 
lent  protector  of  Lucy;)  Joe  Willis,  in  his  sea  toggery; 
the  Doctor,  (in  dry  clothes,)  and  myself,  holding  the 
tiller.  Peter  and  Dick  stood  near  the  mainmast ;  and 
my  man  Bob,  with  his  ally  Henry,  (blacker  than  himself,) 
came  aft  with  coffee,  and  to  express  his  usual  morning 
anxieties  about  the  health  of  the  ladies. 

Such  was  the  party ;  and  the  Phantom  was  away  for 
the  blue  water. 

We  were  off  for  a  cruise.  That  expressed  about  the 
whole  story.  No  one  of  us  knew  exactly  where  we  might 
be  in  forty-eight  hours,  and  I  cannot  say  that  any  of  us 
cared ;  for  we  were  pleasure  seekers,  drifting  about  the 
ocean  of  life,  waiting  for  breezes  when  it  was  calm,  and 
longing  for  gales  when  the  breeze  blew. 

"  Philip,  how  does  she  head  ?" 

"  East  by  north  half-north,  Doctor." 

"  That  would  take  us  to  the  channel,  wouldn't  it  ?" 

"  Wind  and  weather  permitting,  somewhat  to  the 
northward  of  that." 

"  Keep  her  so  then." 

"  Doctor,  when  did  you  turn  sailor,"  asked  Mrs. 

with  a  laugh. 


THE    CRUISE    OF    THE    PHANTOM.  105 

"  Two  hours  ago  madam.  Mr.  Phillips,  yonder,  let 
me  into  the  secret  of  it,  and  I  am  a  perfect  old  salt." 

The  ladies  looked  up  for  an  explanation,  and  Joe  Wil 
lis  gave  it,  finishing  by  rising  from  the  deck  and  relieving 
me  at  the  tiller,  while  I  took  my  coffee  and  biscuit. 

While  we  were  sitting  thus,  pleasantly  talking,  Mr. 

very  quietly  observed  to  his  lady  wife,  that  he 

saw  a  fish  leap  clear  of  the  water  and  exhibit  his  whole 
length  against  the  sky,  and  what  seemed  to  him  strange, 
it  looked  as  if  he  caught  a  smaller  fish  in  the  air. 

"  Where  away  was  he,"  exclaimed  Joe  and  myself  in  a 
breath. 

"  I  don't  know  exactly  what  you  mean  by  where-away, 
Philip,'  said  our  innocent  friend. 

"  In  which  direction  was  the  fish  ?" 

"  Oh,  that's  what  you  mean  by  where-away,  is  it  ? 
Well,  upon  my  word  one  learns  something  everywhere. 
Joseph,  do  you  know " 

"  John,  where  was  that  fish  ?"  interrupted  Joe,  impa 
tiently. 

"  In  the  air,  I  told  you,  and  that's  what  seemed  so 
singular.  I  shouldn't  have  noticed " 

"  John,  my  dear  fellow,  will  you  do  me  the  favor  to 
point  the  forefinger  of  your  right  hand  in  the  precise  di 
rection  in  which  you  saw  that  fish  ?" 

"  Certainly,  Philip,  with  pleasure,  my  boy.  I  should 
say  about  so." 

"  Three  points  on  the  weather-bow.  We've  run  a  half 
mile  since  he  saw  it.  Dick,  run  up  the  weather-shrouds 


106  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    RIVER. 

and  see  if  you  can  make  a  sword-fish  anywhere  on  the 
starboard  bow." 

"  Sword-fish  !"  exclaimed  a  half  dozen  voices. 

"  They're  ugly  customers,  those  sword-fish,"  added  the 
Doctor,  composedly  to  the  ladies.  "  Run  their  swords 
through  a  ship's  side  any  day  and  sink  her  in  a  twink 
ling." 

"Philip  —  Joseph — You  don't  intend  to  fight  with 
sword-fish,  do  you  ?" 

"  Quietly,  quietly,  my  child.  You  know  you  promised 
to  trust  yourself  entirely  to  Joe  and  me  on  this  cruise  ; 
and  as  to  sword-fish,  they're  as  harmless  as  minnows." 

"  I  believe  you,  Phil,"  said  Lucy,  relapsing  into  her 
usual  calm  demeanor,  while  Joe  and  myself  prepared  our 
tackle. 

A  stand  on  the  end  of  the  bowsprit  with  a  semi-circular 
iron  brace  or  support,  was  always  rigged  on  the  Phantom 
when  at  sea,  and  from  this  the  harpoon  is  thrust,  (not 
cast.)  We  use  generally  about  a  hundred  fathoms  of  line, 
and  a  bushel  basket  for  a  drag.  We  preferred  the  old 
harpoon,  until  we  found  one  with  a  loose  hinged  barb  that 
we  now  use  altogether.  A  rod  fifteen  feet  long,  for  a 
handle,  completes  the  equipment. 

The  habits  of  the  fish  are  singular.  He  usually  swims 
on  the  surface  of  the  water  with  his  long  black  fin  out, 
and  when  he  sees  a  schoal  of  fish  he  makes  a  dash  among 
them,  piercing  more  or  less  with  his  sword,  with  a  pre 
cision  and  skill  incredible  to  one  who  has  not  seen  it.  I 
have  often  heard  those  claiming  to  have  been  eye-witness- 


THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  PHANTOM.  107 

es,  affirm  that  the  sword-fish  will  chase  a  small  fish  until 
he  leaps  into  the  air,  and  following  him,  will  pierce  him 
in  the  air,  with  unerring  aim.  I  have  never  seen  it,  but 
I  do  not  doubt  the  statement.  John  thought  he  saw  the 
same  in  this  instance. 

"  Port  a  little,  sir,"  shouted  Dick  from  the  main  top. 

a  Do  you  see  him  ?" 

"  Aye,  aye,  sir ;  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  off,  right 
ahead  now." 

"  How  is  he  heading  ?" 

"  Right  across  our  bow,  and  swimming  fast  too.  Keep 
her  so,  sir,  and  you'll  see  him." 

I  took  the  helm  while  Joe  went  forward  to  the  stand 
across  which  he  had  lashed  the  harpoon  handle.  The 

Doctor  and  Mr.  with  the  ladies,  leaned  over  the 

rail,  and  looked  out  to  see  the  sport.  Joe  caught  sight 
of  him  as  he  took  the  stand. 

"  Keep  her  away  a  little,  Phil." 

«  So  it  is." 

"  Steady  so ;  he's  luffing  now.  There  he  turns  !  Do 
you  see  him  ?  Now  he  goes  like  lightning !  Keep  your 
eye  on  him,  Phil;  he'll  cross  under  the  stern." 

"All  hands  to  wear  ship,"  I  shouted,  as  his  black  fin 
shot  by  the  quarter ;  and  we  came  around,  the  boom  fly 
ing  across  with  a  jerk  that  shook  the  Phantom  from 
stem  to  taffrail.  You  can  never  approach  a  sword  fish, 
except  in  the  rear ;  and  if  he  is  still  in  the  water,  you 
can  run  him  down  before  he  will  start.  He  was  now 
almost  to  windward  of  us,  but  I  could  lie  up  nearly  to 


108  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    RIVER. 

him,  and  spring  my  luff  just  enough  to  bring  Joe  over 
him. 

He  leaned  forward,  with  his  harpoon  ready ;  and  as 
she  sunk  on  the  long  sea,  he  buried  the  iron  in  the  fel 
low's  back,  drawing  back  the  handle,  and  throwing  it  on 
deck  to  Bob,  who  stood  ready  to  catch  it.  You  could 
see  but  a  twinkle  of  the  fish's  tail  as  he  went  down,  and 
the  line  flew  out.  But,  long  before  he  had  drawn  half 
the  line  out,  he  was  on  the  bottom,  and  he  had  a  heavy 
pull  at  the  cord  before  Dick  threw  the  basket  over. 
This  he  did  at  length ;  and  we  cruised  about  it  for  a 
while,  until  it  was  motionless  on  the  water,  and  we  then 
hauled  it  in  again.  A  long  and  steady  pull  brought  the 
fish  up  alongside ;  and,  fortunately,  Joe  had  struck  him 
so  well  that  he  did  not  need  lancing.  We  rigged  a  block 
and  tackle,  and  hoisted  him  in  on  deck,  where  he  afforded 
amusement  to  the  ladies  for  an  hour,  and  afterward  satis 
fied  the  hunger  of  all  who  chose  to  cut  from  him  as  he 
lay  on  the  wharf  at  Newport ;  for  the  next  day  we  were 
in  that  harbor. 

The  day  wore  on.  We  lunched  at  noon,  and  dozed 
away  the  afternoon,  till  Bob  and  Henry  announced  din 
ner,  which  we  discussed  with  appetites  unknown  on  shore. 
There  was  a  grand  plate  of  soup  that  Bob  extracted  from 
the  last  terrapin  left  in  the  larder.  There  were  sea  bass 
that  we  had  caught  the  day  previous,  as  we  drifted  south 
east  of  Montauk ;  and  a  blue  fish  that  Dick  had  hooked 
as  we  ran  by  Block  Island.  Item,  a  slice  of  sword  fish, 
by  no  means  unpalatable.  Then  there  was  a  cold  chick- 


THE    CRUISE    OF    THE    PHANTOM.  109 

en,  and  a  cold  ham,  and  a  cold  shoulder  of  lamb,  and  a 
half  dozen  of  the  finest  woodcock  yon  ever  saw,  broiled  to 
perfection.  A  capital  steward  is  Bob,  unequalled  on  salt 
water,  and  on  land  only  equalled  by  Anthony.  But  why 
waste  time  in  describing  these  small  affairs  ? 

Only  because  those  small  affairs  are  just  what  make  up 
our  every-day  life.  We  live  so  quietly,  with  so  little 
knowledge  of  the  storms  and  calms  that  alternate  in  the 
busy  world ;  so  far  removed  from  convulsions  of  moral  or 
political  society,  that  the  small  incidents  of  other  men's 
existence  are  the  marks  of  our  passage  through  life. 
Not  that  we  are  epicures,  and  care  for  our  bodies  more 
than  we  should,  for  none  more  despise  the  effeminacies 
of  life  than  do  we ;  but  in  place  of  measuring  time  by 
clocks  and  dials,  we  measure  it  by  incidents,  and  the  day 
is  divided  into  "  before  and  after  dinner,"  as  the  dinner 
is  divided  into  "before  and  after  fish." 

And  after  all,  who  dare  call  anything  a  trifle  in  this 
world,  or  this  age  of  the  world  ?  When  thrones  are  sup 
ported  by  straws  that  are  blown  away  by  the  breath  of 
the  great  people  when  they  shout;  when  empires  are 
founded  in  a  day,  and  kings  dethroned  in  a  night ;  who 
shall  call  those  things  trifles,  which  may  have  weight  in 
the  scale  of  the  destiny  even  of  one  human  being  ? 

That  dinner  was  an  epoch.  The  doctor  and  Miss 

had  cause  to  remember  it.  For  the  doctor  was  full  of 

fun,  and  Miss  uncommonly  grave.  I  fancied  the 

roll  of  the  vessel  had  something  to  do  with  it,  but  this 


110  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    RIVER. 

she  stoutly  denied.  At  length,  however,  she  went  on 
deck,  and  the  doctor  accompanied  her. 

The  rest  of  the  party  remained  below,  talking  for  an 
hour  or  more,  and  then  adjourned  into  the  clear  air.  It 
was  a  night  of  nights.  The  sun  was  gone,  and  the  mo©n 
just  rising  in  the  east,  seemed  to  have  paved  with  gold 
the  track  across  the  sea,  by  which  her  radiant  messengers 
might  come  to  us.  The  stars  were  full  of  delight,  and 
the  sky  was  like  a  memory  of  childhood,  full  of  holy 
places  of  joy  and  purity,  and  indescribable  beauty.  The 
sea  was  alone  restless,  and  now  we  fancied  we  could  hear 
the  moaning  of  the  surf  on  the  shore ;  but  that  could  not 
be,  for  it  was  a  hundred  miles  away. 

The  Doctor  was  seated  on  the  taffrail ;  Miss •  lay 

on  the  deck,  wrapped  in  a  couple  of  boating-coats  that 
entirely  protected  her  from  the  dew. 

And  here,  perhaps,  I  ought  to  pause  to  sketch  for  you 
her  character  who  was  the  pet  of  our  whole  party.  But 
you  will  take  the  whole  sketch  in  a  few  sentences.  She 
was  young,  bright-eyed,  full  of  life  and  joy,  as  beautiful 
as  a  maiden  need  be,  and  as  lovely  as  ever  maiden  was. 
A  protegee  of  Lucy,  she  was  much  like  her  in  her  win 
ning  ways,  and  when  our  party  was  made  up  the  summer 
previous,  she  had  been  its  star.  We  could  not  go  with 
out  her  this  time,  and  matronized  by  Mrs. she  was 

safe  in  the  company  of  a  trio  of  bachelors,  none  of  whom 
were  ever  suspected  of  special  devotion  to  ladies. 

But  the  Doctor  was  lost.  It  was  not  deniable,  and  he 
confessed  it  frankly  by  every  act. 


THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  PHANTOM.          Ill 

A  smile  stole  over  the  face  of  Mrs.  as  she  saw 

them  on  deck,  and  I  turned  to  look  at  the  vision  of  love 
liness  encased  in  rough  coats,  with  an  oil  cloth  cap  on  her 
head,  more  lovely  by  the  odd  costume. 

"  Phil,"  said  the  Doctor  gravely  to  me,  "  I  want  to 
speak  a  word  with  you." 

The  Doctor  was  not  apt  to  be  serious,  and  I  was  sur 
prised  ;  but  walked  forward  with  him  and  listened. 

"  Miss is  far  from  well.  I  don't  know  whether 

you  have  observed  it,  but  her  eyes  look  badly,  and  her 
face  is  decidedly  bilious." 

"  Upon  my  word,  Doctor,  I  thought  she  never  looked 
so  well  in  my  life  ;  and  her  face — you  don't  call  that  yel 
low,  do  you  ?"  and  I  glanced  at  the  white,  fairy-looking 
creature,  as  she  lay  with  her  head  supported  on  her 
elbow  looking  toward  us. 

"  All  moonlight,  Phil — nothing  else.  I  assure  you 
s.he  ought  to  be  on  shore  ;  and  if  you'll  take  my  advice 
you'll  bear  up  for  Newport." 

"  If  you  think  so  really,  my  dear  fellow,  I  will  do  it 
by  all  means.  It  is  only  changing  the  course.  I  sup 
pose  no  one  on  board  cares  where  we  are  to-morrow, 
though  we  haven't  much  Newport  toggery  among  us. 
But  the  ladies'  trunks  are  there  by  this  time,  and  Miss 
's  father  and  mother  are  there,  I  believe." 

"  Take  my  advice,  Philip.     You'll  not  regret  it." 

"  So  be  it,  then,"  said  I ;  and  walking  aft  I  directed 
Dick  to  change  her  course  gradually,  and  as  the  wind 
was  now  steady  from  the  southward,  he  eased  off  the 


112  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    RIVER. 

main-sheet  little  by  little,  and  it  was  not  till  we  had  to 
turn  around  to  look  at  the  moon  that  any  one  noticed 
that  we  were  standing  northward.  Then  she  jibed,  and 
the  boom  went  over  with  a  crash,  and  then  she  slipped 
along  through  the  water  with  the  wind  free ;  and  so  the 
evening  passed  into  the  night.  One  or  two  pleasant 
songs  were  sung  by  Joe  Willis  in  his  clear,  rich  tones, 
and  he  and  Lucy  sang  a  duet  which,  I  confess  it,  brought 
tears  into  my  eyes ;  for  it  was  a  song  of  long  ago,  one  of 
the  dear  old  songs  that  she  loved — she  that  heard  it  that 
night  from  her  home  among  the  stars,  and  blessed  us  as 
we  floated  on  and  sang  ! 

Then  came  sleep — sweet  sleep  on  the  mother-like 
breast  of  the  ocean — and  when  the  gray  dawn  came  into 
the  east,  Point  Judith  was  well  off  on  the  larboard  bow, 
and  we  were  running  up  the  bay  with  a  ten-knot  breeze 
blowing. 

«  Miss ,  I  am  really  happy  to  see  you  looking 

so  well  this  morning,"  said  I,  as  the  ladies  came  on 
deck. 

«  Me — why — there's  surely  no  reason  why  I  should 
not  look  well,  is  there  ?" 

I  glanced  at  the  Doctor.  He  was  silent.  Miss 

questioned  him.  He  maintained  an  imperturbable  calm, 
which  certainly  puzzled  me. 

That  evening  explained  it.  I  was  sitting  on  the  piazza 

of  the  Ocean  House,  when  Mr. approached,  and 

begged  the  favor  of  a  little  consultation  with  me,  which 
of  course  I  cheerfully  accorded.  The  Doctor  had  offered 


THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  PHANTOM.        .   113 

his  fortune  and  himself,  and  referred  the  father  to  me  to 
advise  him  as  to  the  extent  of  the  one,  and  the  character 
of  the  other. 

My  first  impulse  was  to  play  the  Doctor  a  trick,  for  the 
one  he  had  played  on  me.  But  the  matter  was  too  seri 
ous,  and  there  was  a  lady's  heart  in  the  case  too.  So  I 

told  Mr. frankly,  that  a  nobler  fellow  did  not 

exist,  and  so  ended  our  summer  cruise.  We  came  back 
to  the  city  by  steamer  from  Providence,  and  found  the 
Phantom  at  her  moorings. 

The  Doctor  is  married,  and  will  visit  us  with  his  bride 
some  pleasant  winter  day,  and  will  be  welcome. 


VIII. 


tank. 


NO  portion  of  our  country  is  richer  in  material  for 
legend  and  poetry  than  Long  Island,  and  no  part  of 
Long  Island  furnishes  so  much  of  this  material  as  Mon- 
tauk. 

I  have  a  strange  reverence  for  that  taper  point  that 
cradles  the  countless  warriors  of  Wyandancee,  rocked 
by  the  ocean  in  their  long  repose.  Generation  after 
generation  of  the  mightiest  race  that  ever  trod  the 
land  we  love,  went  withering  to  their  rest  like  autumn 
leaves,  and  the  west  winds  swept  them  thitherward.  No 
Montauk  sleeps  in  other  ground.  The  song  of  maidens 
over  the  mighty  dead  never  woke  echo  for  one  of  that 
race  west  of  Napeague.  The  song  of  the  Peconic  was 
for  women  to  sleep  by.  The  thunder  of  the  surge  alone 
could  be  fitting  lullaby  for  the  giant  sons  of  Sewanhaka. 

The  Phantom  lay  to  the  southward  of  Fisher's  Island. 
It  was  still,  but  cloudy,  and  a  gale  was  brewing.  I  was 
on  deck  and  kept  the  second  watch.  The  gloom  which 
hung  to  the  southward  seemed  impenetrable.  I  fixed  my 
eyes  on  the  mists  overhead,  and  as  I  watched  them  they 
began  to  assume  forms  which  my  brain  conjured  into  all 


118  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    RIVER. 

manner  of  phantoms.  But  my  eyes  slowly  fell  to  the 
horizon,  and  as  they  wandered  along  the  dark  masses,  I 
saw  a  sudden  rift  letting  through  the  gleam  of  a  single 
star.  And  directly  under  it  I  saw,  what  at  first  I  sup 
posed  to  be  a  deception  of  my  eyes,  a  dimmer  star,  on 
the  very  surface  of  the  wave ;  but  as  I  looked  again  and 
again  I  recognized  the  faint  gleam  of  Montauk. 

As  I  mused,  the  clouds  again  took  shapes,  and  I  fancied 
the  great  battle  scene  between  the  Pequots  and  the  Mon- 
tauks,  before  me.  There  was  the  advance,  the  melee,  the 
whirling,  driving,  maddening  confusion ;  the  continued 
strife,  until  all  was  mingled  in  one  dense,  rolling  mass, 
and  suddenly  all  broke  away  and  fled ;  and  in  a  brief 
space  the  clouds  were  gone,  and  the  myriad  stars  looked 
calmly  down  on  the  long  graves  of  the  forgotten. 

That  battle  scene,  hardly  preserved  in  the  traditions 
of  a  tribe  that  is  almost  extinct,  would  furnish  material 
for  a  noble  epic.  The  Pequots,  flushed  with  triumphs  on 
the  main,  determined  to  conquer  the  great  tribe  whose 
fame  had  crossed  the  water  ;  and  launching  an  enormous 
fleet,  sailed  swiftly  to  the  island.  But  the  Montauks  were 
vigilant,  and  the  invaders  found  them  entrenched  in  a 
strong  fortification,  built  on  an  eminence,  now  known  as 
Fort  Hill.  The  remains  of  this  fortification  may  still  be 
seen.  The  larger  portion  of  the  tribe  were  absent  on 
some  expedition  of  importance,  and  the  Pequots  outnum 
bered  the  islanders,  some  three  to  one. 

They  poured  in  on  the  devoted  patriots,  over  palisade 
and  mound,  over  trench  and  wall,  thousands  on  thousands, 


MONTAUK.  119 

crushing  the  sand  hills  to  a  smooth  plain,  with  their 
heavy  weight  and  sweeping  advance.  Before  the  first 
canoe  had  touched  the  shore,  their  exultant  yell  rang 
across  the  point  and  mingled  with  the  surf  roar  of  the 
southern  sea ;  but  when  twilight  fell  grayly  on  the  bloody 
field,  they  sang  death  songs  over  four  thousand  stout 
hearts  that  had  ceased  to  throb.  That  night  the  gallant 
defenders  of  the  soil  retreated  to  a  neighboring  swamp  to 
await  succor,  and  the  invaders,  with  the  dawn,  rushed  into 
an  empty  fortress. 

Deeds  of  valor  that  would  have  honored  the  days  of 
Bayard,  distinguished  that  day  and  the  succeeding  ones. 
And  though  no  Guillaume  de  Lorris,  or  Jean  de  Mung, 
lived  to  blazon  the  warrior's  name  in  poesy,  yet  there 
were,  even  in  a  recent  age,  old  men  who  loved  to  sit  and 
tell  of  the  great  deeds  of  the  Eagle ;  how  a  dozen  dead 
Pequots  made  a  rampart  around  the  royal  Sayastock; 
and  how  the  maidens  carried  afterward  annual  offerings  to 
the  grave  of  Ammanaganset,  who  lay  buried  with  twenty 
Pequot  wolves  around  him,  just  as  they  fell  by  his  own 
stout  arm. 

The  next  day  came  the  expected  succor  to  the  Mon- 
tauks.  They  drove  the  invaders  back  to  their  boats,  and 
a  worn  and  wounded  few  escaped  to  seaward.  More  than 
five  hundred  canoes  remained  on  shore,  the  spoil  of  the 
conquerors.  There  is  a  legend  of  a  communion  between 
the  great  Wyandancee  and  Manitou  in  the  dark  night 
that  succeeded  the  first  day's  conflict.  It  is  said  that  the 
chief  left  the  swamp  alone,  and  had  an  interview  with  the 


120  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    RIVER. 

God  of  his  fathers,  near  the  Eastern  point,  and  that  the 
Guardian  of  the  Montauks  promised  to  drive  their  foes 
before  them,  and  to  make  them  always  victorious.  Cer 
tain  it  is  that  we  have  no  record  that  the  tribe  was  ever 
conquered  on  a  fair  field,  and  they  have  left  a  purer  name 
for  faith,  and  truth,  and  nobility,  and  friendship,  to  later 
times,  than  any  tribe  of  America. 

And  equally  certain  is  it,  that  when  that  scattered  fleet 
collected  a  hundred  canoes  of  Pequots  and  bore  away  to 
Northward,  there  came  from  the  West  a  storm  of  such 
terrific  violence  as  had  not  shaken  the  island  foundations 
in  centuries  5  and  four  days  afterward,  one  solitary  canoe, 
without  paddles,  drifted  on  the  shore  of  Neman's  Land 
(now  so-called) ;  and  five  gaunt,  famine-stricken  Pequots 
crawled  up  the  bank,  and  lay  waiting  death  in  the  serene 
sunshine.  By  chance,  a  fishing  party  found  them  there 
when  all  but  two  were  dead,  and  these  they  carried  home. 
The  wail  that  went  up  to  the  sky  and  floated  across  the 
sea  when  their  dismal  tidings  spread  over  the  main  land, 
it  is  said,  reached  the  ears  of  the  Montauks  as  they  gath 
ered  in  the  triumphal  feast  on  the  farthermost  point,  and 
the  brave  warriors  bowed  their  heads  a  moment,  before 
they  drank  the  holy  water  of  the  bubbling  spring,  and  did 
honor  to  the  brave  dead.  Then  broke  out  a  chant  of 
victory,  so  clear,  so  joyous,  that  the  wild  duck  heard  it  on 
her  nest  in  Peconic's  deepest  swamp,  and  the  sea-gull 
wheeled  screaming  over  the  feast  of  the  valiant.  They 
thanked  God  heartily  and  humbly,  those  noble  forest  and 
island  worshippers. 


MONTAUK.  121 

For  months,  on  the  shore  of  the  great  sea,  the  Pe- 
quot  warriors  lay  unburied.  Their  stalwart  arms  grew 
rigid  in  the  sun,  their  brawny  hands  grasping  their  hatch 
ets  still,  as  if  not  half  content  with  their  rest.  No  women 
sang  over  them  the  plaintive  songs  that  lulled  the  Red 
man  to  his  sleep.  The  waves  and  the  winds  alone  moaned 
around  them,  but  they  could  not  deepen  the  slumber  of 
the  brave. 

For  many  a  year  the  Montaukett  women  told  their 
children  of  this  day's  work,  and  the  girls,  sitting  on  the 
rocks,  sang  songs  of  the  brave,  and  strewed  flowers  where 
their  fathers  were  sleeping.  The  Indian  girls  have  gone 
like  the  moonbeams !  Other  voices  ring  now  over  the 
island,  and  pale-face  maidens,  with  their  lovers,  wander 
on  the  shore,  and  make  vows  to  be  witnessed  by  the 
changeless  sea. 

Willis  and  myself  went  on  shore  in  the  course  of  the 
day  after  the  night  I  have  spoken  of. 

We  found  a  large  company  of  ladies  and  gentlemen 
there,  who  had  come  down  in  carriages.  Avoiding  them 
we  strolled  along  the  water-side,  and,  seated  on  a  rock, 
talked  over  the  history  which  hallowed  that  spot.  Little 
thought  gave  the  gay  group  near  us  to  the  bones  of  the 
mighty  dead  that  mouldered  under  their  feet.  How 
lightly  rang  the  song,  the  laugh,  the  clear  glad  carol  of 
youth,  in  the  serene  sunshine ;  and  yet  how  solemnly,  in 
what  fearful  calmness,  slept  a  thousand  men  under  the 
grass !  The  same  air  once  rang  to  the  wail  of  Indian 
maidens,  who  sat  by  the  bodies  of  the  valiant  dead. 
6 


122  THK     OLD    HOUSK    BY    THE    RIVER. 

The  same  sunshine  fell  on  horrible  wounds,  and  teeth 
clenched  in  the  last  long  gasp,  and  cold  foreheads  moist 
with  the  death-dew.  The  same  holy  twilight  that  mantled 
us,  after  awhile,  as  with  an  atmosphere  of  love,  shrouded 
the  sleep  of  the  Montauk,  as  his  grasp  relaxed  on  the 
throat  of  his  foe,  his  brown  cheek  was  laid  quietly  on  the 
green  sward,  and  he  sank  to  rest  under  the  stars. 

They  have  slept  well  thus  far,  through  centuries. 
Thrones  have  crumbled.  The  thunder  of  the  invader's 
cannon  shook  these  rocks  from  their  foundations.  The 
earthquakes  of  revolution  have  overturned  the  nations. 
The  meteor-like  lives  of  men  have  dazzled  the  world 
with  their  radiance,  while  they  reddened  it  with  blood. 
More  than  ten  generations  have  been  born  and  returned 
to  the  womb  of  earth  which  bare  them,  and  the  sleep  of 
the  Montauk  is  as  deep  as  when  the  dark-eyed  girls  sang 
sadly  over  him,  and  his  dust  has  mingled  with  the  dust 
of  his  foe.  » 

"  Listen,"  said  Joe,  as  he  sat  on  the  rock.  "  Listen  to 
the  ripples.  Heard  you  them  ever  more  musically  ?  Is 
it  strange  that  here  the  dead  sleep  well  ?" 

Four  hundred  years  ago  !  What  right  had  we  to  be 
sitting  within  sound  of  those  glad  voices  and  talking  of 
the  forgotten  centuries  ?  What  right  had  we  to  summon 
ghosts  of  the  grim  warriors  to  frighten  the  maidens  of 
quiet  later  years  ?  But  they  were  .there.  Their  giant 
forms  stalked  through  the  forest,  and  we  gazed  on  their 
plumes  and  saw  their  dark  eyes  flash  in  the  gloom  of  the 
coming  evening.  Four  hundred  years  ago,  fair  child  of 


MONTAUK.  123 

the  white  man,  on  the  rock  on  which  you  spread  your 
handkerchief  and  gaily  arranged  your  luxurious  meal  of 
cake,  and  fruit,  and  coffee,  an  Indian  girl  sat,  holding  in 
her  arms  the  head  of  her  dying  lover.  He  is  buried  un 
der  the  turf  you  sit  upon  ! 

There  is  a  story  of  that  battle  which  deserves  a  sepa 
rate  preservation.  I  know  not  the  authority  for  its 
truth,  but  it  is  at  least  beautiful.  It  sanctifies  a  place, 
in  my  view,  when  I  know  that  therein  a  human  heart 
beats  with  the  holiest  pulsations  of  earthly  emotion. 
The  Red  man's  presence  life  and  death  invest  with  a 
mournful  interest  the  ground  he  trod.  But  the  Red 
man's  love,  that  last  and  dearest  relic  of  Eden  left  to 
every  child  of  Adam,  that  priceless  boon  of  Grod  which 
makes  earth  sometimes  all  an  Eden,  and  woman  very  like 
to  Eve  before  her  fall ;  the  Red  man's  love  hallows  the 
moon-lit  bay  where  his  canoe  once  floated,  and  the 
shadowy  forests  that  witnessed  his  happy  wooing. 

As  that  fierce  fight  grew  less  and  less  terrible  for  lack 
of  men,  one  of  the  Northern  chiefs,  a  young,  bold  warrior, 
might  have  been  seen  heading  the  few  survivors.  His 
eagle  plume  flashed  in  the  thickest  of  the  fight,  and  when 
ever  his  stout  arm  was  raised  it  fell  to  crush  a  foe. 

At  length  the  moment  for  flight  came,  and  at  that  in 
stant  he  caught  sight  of  a  Montauk  girl,  standing  on  a 
rock,  on  the  other  side  of  a  narrow  inlet,  watching  with 
intense  interest  the  progress  of  the  battle.  He  knew 
her,  for  he  had  loved  her,  and  by  the  uplifted  hand,  saw 
that  he  was  known  by  her.  In  that  moment  of  despair, 


124  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY   THE    RIVER. 

who  shall  attempt  to  tell  the  thoughts  of  the  brave 
lover  ?  He  thought  of  life,  and  a  tall  foe  went  down  be 
fore  his  axe  like  a  forest  tree.  He  thought  of  love,  and 
swung  his  heavy  arm,  and  one  Montauk  more  was  in  the 
blessed  hunting  grounds.  He  thought  of  the  dove-eyed 
girl,  and  saw  her  eagerly  gazing  toward  him,  and  his 
strong  arm  flew  swiftly  around  him,  and  the  ground  was 
covered  with  cloven  skulls,  and  limbs,  and  lifeless  bodies. 
Then  the  instant  came  for  flight,  and  with  a  yell  of  fury, 
he  struck  down  the  stoutest  of  the  enemy  and  sprang  into 
the  water. 

She  saw  it  all.  The  last  blow  of  her  lover's  giant  arm 
had  made  the  maiden  fatherless  !  But  she  waited  him 
on  the  rock.  He  nears  it.  His  arm  is  raised  to  grasp 
it.  An  arrow  pierces  his  wrist.  He  drops  it,  and  turns 
convulsively  around,  clenching  his  wounded  hand ;  at 
that  instant  a  shaft  passes  through  his  body,  and  without 
a  moan  he  goes  down  in  the  blue  water.  The  waves  had 
not  closed  above  him,  when  they  opened  to  receive  her, 
and  she  was  seen  no  more.  They  found  them  not  far 
separate.  His  hand  was  grasped  in  hers,  and  her  small 
round  arm  was  wound  around  him.  They  buried  them 
together ;  for  the  Indian  never  failed  to  respect  the  sanc 
tity  of  love. 


IX. 


night  was  cold.     The  library  shutters  rattled  so 
JL    as  to  make  us  nervous,  till  we  managed  to  fasten 
them,  and  then  we  could  listen  to  the  wind  with  less  dis 
turbance.     And  a  full-toned,  sonorous  voice  he  had,  too. 
There's  an  old  tree  above  the  wing  which  •contains  the 
library,  to  which  the  wind  always  seems  to  be  talking,  or 
the  tree  is  replying,  one  or  the  other,  for  they  keep  up  a 
noise  between  them,  and  we— that  is,  Willis  and  I— 
have  so  long  listened,  that  we  have  grown  familiar  with 
the  language  they  use.     We  had  listened  to  it  for  a  half 
hour  or  more  in  perfect  silence,  when  a  new  voice  joined 
the  conversation,  and  we  both  started  and  leaned  for 
ward.     It  was  indescribably  sweet,  but  mournful,  as  if 
some  delicate  plant  (I  think  it  was  the  woodbine  on  the 
corner  of  the  house)  had  suddenly  wailed  out  a  complaint 
to  the  wind  of  his  rudeness.     It  rose  and  fell,  and  rose 
again,  now  in  a  long  note  of  thrilling  sadness,  and  now  in 
disconnected  sobs,  and  at  length  it  died  quite  away.  We 
remained  motionless  and  silent  for  a  moment,  and  then 
Joe  spoke  : 


128  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    KIVER. 

"  Do  you  remember  the  last  time  we  heard  a  sound 
like  that?" 

"  Yes,  I  very  well  remember  it.  It  was  in  the  cabin. 
You  were  sleeping,  and  it  woke  you.  I  was  writing  by 
the  fire-light,  and  I  turned  over  and  listened  to  it ;  and 
when  it  ceased,  I  was  in  dream-land.  How  I  slept  that 
night !  and  yet  there  was  a  tempest  abroad.  Joe,  I  wish 
you  would  ring  the  bell — that  fire  is  getting  low,  and 
Anthony  has  forgotten  us." 

"  There  is  something  in  that  peculiar  wail  which  I  do 
not  like.  I  never  heard  it  yet  without  some  sad  affair 
following  it.  I'm  growing  superstitious  of  late.  Twice 
in  my  life  I  have  heard  it  as  now.  The  time  you  speak 
of,  in  the  cabin,  it  lacked  the  bird-like  trill  which  con 
cluded  it.  I  have  noticed  the  difference.  There  is 
something  very  unearthly  in  that  peculiar  sound." 

"  I  heard  you  say  something  of  the  same  sort  once  be 
fore.  Please  explain.  I  did  not  know  that  your  life 
had  been  marked  by  any  visitations  of  the  supernatural." 

"  It  has  not  been,  except  in  dreams ;  and  in  those  how 
often !  I  tell  you,  Phil,  God  never  gave  to  human  intel 
lect  a  gift  so  blessed  as  the  power  of  dreaming.  It  is  a 
magic  surpassing  that  of  the  woman  of  Endor ;  for  it  not 
only  calls  the  dead  to  life  again,  and  clothes  them  with 
familiar  looks  and  smiles,  but  it  has  power  over  that 
most  difficult  object  of  resurrection,  a  dead  affection ! 
and  it  will  bring  it  from  the  dead,  without  the  grave 
clothes,  in  all  its  original  beauty  and  ravishing  glory. 
Sometimes  it  enters  the  future ;  not  often  though  (and 


THE    WAIL    OF    THE    WIND.  129 

Willis  spoke  musingly  now,  as  if  I  were  not  present).  I 
dare  not  let  my  dreams  go  there  too  often,  lest  the  magic 
with  the  fabled  power  of  the  olden  time  destroy  the  ma 
gician  !  I  dare  not  weave  a  spell  around  the  things  to 
come,  lest  the  servants  of  my  magic  destroy  or  madden 
me!" 

"  A  story  Joe — I  wait,"  said  I,  raising  my  feet  to  the 
soft  cushion  of  the  footstool  in  front  of  the  grate. 

"  Well,  listen  then.  I'll  tell  you  one  with  which  you 
are  not  familiar,  though  you  know  the  chief  incidents : 

"  It  is  one  of  those  memories  that  often  haunt  me  as 
I  sit  here  before  the  grate  when  you  are  gone,  conjuring 
up  the  past,  to  keep  me  company.  Ah,  Phil,  I  love  to 
dream ! 

"  Did  you  know  Carrie  Graydon  ?  She  grew  up  while 
you  were  away.  She  had  an  eye  like  a  star,  or  a  blue 
break  in  a  cloudy  sky.  Not  that  her  face  was  cloudy. 
That  it  never  was,  but  always  sunny.  Never  was  there 
a  fairer  or  a  brighter — save  one." 

Joe  paused  for  an  instant,  as  he  uttered  the  last  sen 
tence  ;  and  I  saw  a  shade  of  suppressed  grief  pass,  like  a 
cloud  in  a  swift  wind,  across  his  face.  I  knew  that  he 
then  stood  in  the  presence  of  a  holy  vision.  And  as  the 
past  went  before  him  with  stately  tread  and  solemn  mien, 
as  the  loved  past  always  goes  before  us  in  these  lonesome 
later  years,  I  turned  away  my  face,  and  left  him  to  the 
communion  of  that  dream.  He  remembered  the  story  he 
was  to  tell  no  longer  !  He  remembered  only  that  vision 
of  loveliness,  unforgotten  and  unchanged  in  the  long  long 


130  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    RIVER. 

years  since  he  buried  it  out  of  his  sight.  He  heard  the 
wind  no  longer  !  He  heard  only  that  low  voice,  musical 
now  with  laughter,  and  now  with  songs. 

"  Carrie  was  our  village  pet ;  and  you  know  what  that 
means.  We  all  loved  her,  with  right  willing  love.  She 
was  one  of  those  that  we  love  to  love.  None  so  full  of 
life,  and  none  so  full  of  gentleness.  Children  left  their 
play  when  she  came  near ;  and  I  do  verily  believe  there 
was  not  an  old  man  in  the  town  that  did  not  dream  of 
her  when  he  did  dream  of  angels  in  heaven. 

"  Well,  to  my  story.  I  drag  on  slowly  in  these  recol 
lections  ;  but,  in  truth,  they  flood  on  me  so  that  I  cannot 
get  along  any  faster ;  for  the  faster  I  speak,  the  faster 
they  flock.  The  instant  I  think  of  Carrie,  I  think  of  her 
father,  the  stout  old  man,  and  her  brother,  and  then  of 
the  old  minister,  Mr.  Winter :  he  was  always  at  Colonel 
Graydon's  in  the  twilight.  You  might  see  them  any 
summer  evening  in  the  porch,  sitting  side  by  side,  talk 
ing  as  familiarly  as  brothers,  of  the  future  and  of  the 
past  as  well.  They  had  lived  near  each  other  a  long 
life-time.  There,  too,  was  Mrs.  Simpson,  who  used  to 
stop  in  the  street  as  she  passed  the  Colonel's,  and  speak 
a  word,  if  but  to  hear  the  two  old  men's  voices ;  '  They 
sounded  so  heavenly-like,'  she  used  to  say.  And  there 
was  Fanny  Wilson,  Carrie's  best  friend,  almost  as  fair, 
and  quite  as  gentle ;  and  then,  Harry  Wilson  too,  dearest 
of  all  the  world  to  Carrie  Graydon. 

"  And  he  was  worthy  the  love  even  of  Carrie.  A  no 
ble  fellow  he  was,  with  a  stout  arm  and  a  stout  heart, 


THE    WAIL    OF    THE    WIND.  131 

and  ready  to  die  for  her  at  any  time,  as  he  did  at  last. 
His  love  was  manly,  and  ennobled  himself  as  well  as  its 
object.  It  was  no  whining,  whimpering  love,  that  thrives 
in  moony  nights,  and  talks  of  stars,  or  shivers  over  grates 
in  the  winter,  and  dreams  of  summer  coming  again.  It 
was  no  ball-room  love,  that  lived  in  a  touch  of  the  gloved 
finger  in  a  cotillon,  or  the  public  embrace  of  the  waltz. 
No  such  love  as  the  men  and  women  of  this  day  talk  and 
write  of.  By  all  the  saints,  I  would  not  buy  that  girl's 
love  that  you  bowed  to  in  the  street  the  last  day  we  were 
in  the  city,  if  you  prized  it  at  a  kiss.  I  press  lips  now-a- 
days,  as  I  used  to  press  my  father's  old  aunt's  lips,  who 
rewarded  me  with  a  fortune  for  my  respectful  salutations. 
The  old  lady  thought  there  was  the  air  of  a  gentleman  in 
my  kisses !  Faugh  !  I  used  to  kiss  with  heart  as  well 
as  lips ;  but  these  days  are  cold,  and  my  heart  and  lips, 
too  !  Phil,  touch  that  fire.  I'm  shivering. 

"  What  a  brilliant  love  that  was.  I  remember  a  hun 
dred  little  incidents  now  that  proved  its  forbearance  and 
its  beauty.  They  never  exchanged  an  unkind  word. 
From  childhood  till  the  end,  they  placed  unbounded  con 
fidence  each  in  the  other.  I  believe  if  Henry  had  told 
Carrie  it  was  snowing  in  a  hot  August  day,  she  would 
have  put  on  a  cloak  to  go  out,  and  shivered  at  that,  so 
firm  was  her  faith  in  all  he  said.  He  never  had  deceived 
her,  in  thought  or  deed.  The  hypocritical  days  were 
not  yet  come,  though  men  have  been  hypocrites  from  the 
days  of  Adam.  But  hypocrisy  is  the  characteristic  of 
this  day,  and  the  whole  world  is  a  sort  of  masked  ball. 


132  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY   THE    RIVER. 

Grod  only  knows  what  skeletons  and  death's  heads  are 
under  the  cloaks  and  masks. 

"  I  was  talking  about  Carrie  G-raydon,  wasn't  I  ?  I 
wander  parenthetically.  Don't  be  surprised  if  I  discuss 
the  quadrature  of  the  circle  before  I  finish  my  story,  for 
I'm  in  a  roving  humor. 

"  The  Colonel  loved  Henry  too  as  his  own  son,  know 
ing  that  he  expected  to  be  so  when  Carrie  should  be 
eighteen.  It  lacked  a  year  of  that  yet. 

"  It  was  the  afternoon  of  the  seventeenth  of  August — 
I  remember  the  date  because  of  my  frequent  recurrence 
to  it  and  its  history — Henry  and  Carrie  were  away  on 
the  hills  on  horseback.  They  left  at  two  o'clock,  and 
were  to  return  by  seven.  Carrie  had  my  horse,  Zephyr; 
I  often  lent  him  to  her. 

"  She  kissed  her  hand  to  me  gaily  as  she  flew  away,  and 
I  returned  the  salute,  little  thinking  of  the  close  of  that 
day's  pleasure. 

"  I  dined  with  Colonel  Graydon,  and  Mr.  Winter  was 
also  at  his  house  till  evening,  when  an  approaching  storm 
warned  us  homeward.  The  suddenness  with  which  it 
came  up  prevented  my  going  farther  than  Dr.  Wilson's, 
and  there  I  turned  in  to  wait  for  the  return  of  my  horse 
as  well  as  the  end  of  the  storm.  It  was  a  fearful  tem 
pest  at  first,  and  then  followed  a  flood  of  rain.  The 
small  mountain-streams  were  swollen  to  torrents,  and  the 
creek  became  a  broad  river,  shaking  the  village  with  its 
roar  and  heavy  fall  over  the  upper  ledge  of  rocks.  The 
mountains  trembled  at  the  noise  of  the  thunder,  and  the 


THE    WAIL    OF    THE    WIND.  133 

voice  of  God  shook  the  earth  itself.  A  tall  tree  before 
Dr.  Wilson's  office  swayed  to  and  fro  in  the  wind  with  a 
groaning  sound,  and  as  the  gale  increased  it  bent  over, 
and  I  stood  watching  it  from  the  window.  Suddenly 
there  came  a  crash  of  thunder  that  shook  the  foundations 
of  the  world,  and  seemed  to  rock  the  old  earth  to  and 
fro,  and  the  tall  tree  went  down,  but  silently ;  for  the 
noise  of  its  fall  was  overpowered  by  that  deep  sound  that 
went  rolling  away  among  the  mountains,  now  lowe-r,  now 
louder,  echoing  from  some  cliff,  or  moaning  through  a 
far-off  glen,  till  it  died  away,  and  a  stillness  ensued  which 
was  more  sublime  than  the  voice  that  preceded  it.  Not 
a  sound  was  in  the  air;  not  a  whisper  of  the  wind,  not 
a  rustling  branch,  not  a  drop  of  rain,  to  break  the  solemn 
silence.  Then,  like  the  wail  of  a  mother  over  her  dead 
boy,  that  wail  of  a  broken  heart,  than  which  no  voice  of 
human  utterance  is  more  sad,  stole  out  on  the  hushed 
air  the  same  sweet  sound  of  the  wind  you  heard  just  now. 
Fitfully  at  first,  as  if  the  weeper  dared  not  weep  aloud ; 
then  more  distinct,  until  it  swelled  into  a  thrilling  wail 
that  made  one  half-believe  an  angel  was  mourning  for 
her  love ;  and  then  it  died  away  faintly,  as  if  the  heart 
was  crushed,  and  life  had  departed  with  the  last  notes  of 
that  unutterably  melodious  voice. 

"  I  was  still  standing  at  the  window  when  a  gleam  of 
sunshine  broke  through  the  clouds,  and  a  rainbow  rested 
across  the  glen.  Within  a  few  moments  the  sun  went 
down,  and  just  then  Colonel  Graydon  came  in.  He  was 
anxious  lest  Henry  and  Carrie  had  been  caught  among  the 


134  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    RIVER. 

hills,  and  the  horses  would  be  restive  at  the  lightning. 
We  sat  talking  till  after  dark,  and  then  were  aroused  by 
a  call  for  aid,  to  secure  the  old  bridge  below  the  fall, 
which  the  swollen  stream  had  nearly  carried  away.  You 
remember  it  was  about  a  half  mile  from  the  village,  and 
we  hastened  there  with  a  dozen  hands.  The  bridge  was 
in  a  bad  condition ;  so  bad  that  no  one  dared  cross  it. 
It  was  swaying  back  and  forth,  and  every  instant  seemed 
as  if  the  addition  of  an  ounce  weight  would  send  it  down. 
The  stream  was  in  wild  commotion,  leaping  along  in  the 
moonlight,  silvery  and  laughing,  but  with  terrible  fury. 
The  moon  shone  gloriously  on  the  trees  and  water.  Phil, 
I  hate  the  moon.  She  is  cold — terribly  cold — and  she 
smiles  so  mockingly  on  agony,  that  I  don't  trust  her 
smiles  on  joy.  The  stars  are  different.  They  suit  them 
selves  to  our  moods — are  sad  as  we  are  sad,  and  gleam 
joyfully  when  we  rejoice.  But  the  moon  is  the  same 
calm,  cool,  smiling  moon  in  woe  or  gladness. 

"  I  shrank  from  the  stream  with  a  shudder,  beautiful  as 
it  was,  and  did  not  offer  any  aid  to  the  men  who  were 
making  that  end  fast  as  well  as  they  could.  While  they 
were  at  work  I  heard  the  sound  of  horses'  hoofs  coming 
down  the  opposite  hill,  and  was  astonished  to  see  Henry 
and  Carrie  emerge  from  the  wood  at  a  rapid  trot.  They 
should  have  come  by  the  other  road,  but  had  taken  a 
long  route  around.  We  shouted  to  them,  but  they  did 
not  hear  us.  They  were  laughing  gaily,  as  we  could  see 
in  the  moonlight,  and  Carrie's  hand  was  raised  playfully 
to  strike  Henry  with  her  whip  as  they  came  on  the 


THE  WAIL  OF  THE  WIND.  135 

bridge.  They  had  but  crossed  half  way  when  Henry 
saw  his  danger.  Evidently  it  was  a  sudden  discovery, 
for  he  seized  Carrie's  rein,  drew  his  own  close,  and 
shouted,  so  that  we  heard  him  distinctly,  "  On,  on  for 
your  life,  Carrie,"  and  dashed  forward.  Side  by  side 
the  two  horses  made  tremendous  leaps,  and  three  more 
would  have  saved  them.  Colonel  Gray  don  rushed  for 
ward,  but  a  strong  arm  held  him  back,  for  Mr.  Winter 
was  not  weak  though  old  and  silver-haired. 

"  Zephyr  was  a  tempest,  but  it  was  too  late.  The  noble 
animals  strained  every  limb,  themselves  doubtless  aware 
of  the  fearful  danger;  the  bridge  swayed  downward,  back 
again — downward — it  cracked,  it  crashed,  it  thundered 
over  the  roar  of  the  stream — they  were  gone !  I  saw  the 
white  gleam  of  a  hand  on  the  surface  of  the  torrent, 
among  planks  and  timber,  and  then  the  mass  rolled 
downward  and  separated,  and  I  next  saw  Zephyr  and  his 
rider  emerge,  the  former  apparently  unharmed,  but  the 
latter  evidently  badly  hurt.  Harry  had  deserted  his 
horse,  and  when  he  came  up,  was  close  to  Carrie,  so  that 
as  she  fell  from  the  horse  he  caught  her  'and  threw  one 
arm  around  her,  while  he  swam  with  the  other.  Some 
loads  are  easy  to  bear,  and  some  are  lighter  than  no  load 
at  all.  I  believe  that  under  ordinary  circumstances 
Henry  would  have  butFeted  any  current  better  with  Car 
rie  in  one  arm,  but  he  had  received  a  bad  blow  from  a 
falling  timber,  and  labored  much.  I  could  see  that  his 
strength  failed  him,  and  I  struck  out  more  earnestly.  I 
forgot  to  tell  you  that  I  leaped  in  as  the  bridge  fell.  I 


136  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    RIVER. 

don't  know  how  nor  where.  I  was  a  strong  swimmer,  as 
I  am  still,  and  I  found  myself  in  the  water  waiting  for 
them  to  come  up.  I  neared  them  rapidly,  but  not  so 
rapidly  as  to  save  them.  I  never  before  nor  since  swam 
with  such  a  prize  before  me,  but  it  was  vain.  I  saw  them 
go  down,  I  saw  Harry  struggle,  bravely,  boldly ;  I  saw 
her  in  that  moment  of  agony  try  to  relieve  him  of  her 
load,  and  I  saw  him  draw  her  more  closely  to  him,  and  the 
water  alone  was  before  me  and  the  mocking  moonbeams ! 
I  saw  a  white  gleam,  as  of  a  hand.  It  was  but  a  foam- 
cap.  I  dove  and  searched  for  them,  swimming  downward 
with  the  current.  I  cannot  give  you  any  idea  of  the  in 
tensity  of  thought  which  I  then  felt.  It  was  the  respon 
sibility  of  those  two  lives  which  oppressed  my  brain  to 
madness.  I  knew  that  I  alone  was  between  them  and 
eternity,  and  I  believe  if  I  had  not  found  the  object  of 
my  search,  I  should  have  gone  down  myself.  Their  arms 
were  locked  around  each  other.  I  succeeded  in  reaching 
a  jutting  point  of  land  where  Colonel  Gray  don  and  the 
rest  seized  me  and  my  precious  burden,  and  I  remember 
nothing  farther  until  returning  sensation  showed  me  a 
group  standing  sadly  around  the  two  forms  which  I  had 
rescued.  God  had  not  given  me  to  rescue  both  of  them. 
The  spirit  of  Harry  Wilson  had  gone  from  the  torrent  to 
the  rest  of  the  blessed.  I  staggered  toward  the  side  of 
Carrie  Graydon.  She  was  beautiful  beyond  all  words, 
and  as  J  fell  at  her  side,  a  tremulous  motion  of  her  eye 
lid  indicated  returning  sensation.  The  usual  active  re 
medies  were  used  and  she  revived,  but  only  to  look  at 


THE    WAIL    OF    THE    WIND.  137 

Henry  and  throw  herself  on  his  body  and  relapse  into  un 
consciousness. 

"  And  the  moon  smiled  on  that  scene  too,  and  the  river 
laughed  wildly  at  its  work,  and  I  laid  my  hand  on  the 
breast  of  Henry  Wilson  and  knew  that  his  sleep  was 
very  deep,  even  death.  And  we  forbore  for  awhile  to  re 
move  the  clasp  of  Carrie's  arms,  or  attempt  to  restore 
her,  so  overpowered  were  we  all  by  the  scene ;  and  one  by 
one  in  the  presence  of  the  noble  dead,  and  at  that  holiest 
altar  whereat  man  may  kneel  on  earth  and  worship  God 
in  heaven,  they  knelt,  Colonel  Graydon  by  my  side,  and 
Dr.  Wilson  on  the  other  side  of  his  noble  son,  and  Mr. 
Winter,  the  good  old  minister,  bowed  his  head  and  mur 
mured  with  a  choking  sob :  '  It  is  the  Lord,'  and  wept 
aloud.  Phil !  I  never  wept  more  bitter  tears,  never, 
never." 

"  What  became  of  Miss  Graydon  ?" 

"  She  never  forgave  me  for  saving  her.  I  don't  mean 
by  that  that  she  was  not  grateful  as  the  people  of  the 
world  ordinarily  are,  but  I  have  heard  that  she  thought 
her  life  not  worth  the  saving.  The  colonel  left  this  coun 
try  for  the  west  shortly  after  that,  and  his  daughter  I  am 
told,  is  the  almoner  of  a  new  settlement  among  the  prai 
ries.  She  has  never  married." 


X. 


A  FEW  rods  from  the  mansion,  on  the  bank  of  the 
river,  where  we  used  to  play  in  boyish  days,  is  a 
singular  rock,  one  side  of  which  is  hollowed  out,  as  if  by 
the  hand  of  man.  The  cavity  is  so  shaped  as  to  form  a 
sofa-like  seat  for  two  persons,  with  a  back  higher  than 
their  heads,  and  so  much  elevated  as  to  be  above  the 
reach  of  the  tide,  although  sometimes  the  water  flows  up 
to  the  base  of  the  rock. 

I  asked  Willis  if  he  had  ever  formed  an  idea  of  the 
origin  of  this  peculiar  seat,  or  if  indeed  he  supposed  it  to 
be  the  work  of  man.  He  replied  that  he  had  no  doubt 
it  was  the  work  of  one  of  the  tribes  of  Indians  who  for 
merly  inhabited  the  country,  if  their  life  could  dignify 
them  by  the  title  of  inhabitants.  He  supposed  he  had 
found  other  evidence  that  they  had  a  royal  residence  near 
this  place ;  and  putting  together  what  material  he  had 
been  able  to  collect,  he  had  formed  a  history  of  the  decay 
of  the  tribe  which  was  not  a  little  interesting. 

I  smiled  as  he  made  this  remark,  and  he,  observing 
me,  remarked  that  he  might  as  well  acknowledge  the 


142  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    RIVER. 

story  at  once  to  be  fictitious  from  beginning  to  end,  as 
I  was  so  accustomed  to  the  manufacture  of  similar 
ones,  that  he  had  no  hesitation  in  confessing  it  to  me. 
I  thereupon  indignantly  repudiated  the  idea  that  I  had 
ever  manufactured  history,  whereupon  he  told  me  I 
need  not  be  so  anxious  to  disown  it ;  for,  had  I  done  so, 
it  would  have  placed  me  in  excellent  company,  inasmuch 
as  it  has  of  late  become  the  fashion  to  manufacture  his 
torical  facts,  wherever  truth  is  not  sufficiently  interesting. 
As  I  was  about  to  add  a  rejoinder  with  some  acerbity, 
Willis  interrupted  me  by  passing  the  cigars ;  and  then 
sinking  back  into  his  easy-chair,  and  lazily  watching  the 
smoke  as  it  curled  in  the  still  air,  spoke  in  a  half  musing 
way;  while  I,  stretched  at  full  length  on  the  couch, 
listened  as  I  would  to  a  dream, — for  both  of  us  were  in  a 
dreamy  humor. 

"  I  will  not  say  that  they  are  gone,  for  that  is  too  old 
a  saying ;  nor  will  I  say  they  have  passed  away,  for  they 
have  not.  They  either  never  were  other  than  ghostly 
visitors  flitting  about  in  these  solemn  forests,  or  else  they 
were  a  lordly  race,  and  died  man  by  man,  heart  by 
heart,  on  the  ground  they  loved,  before  the  cabin  doors 
they  guarded,  and  are  now  part  and  parcel  of  the  dust 
under  our  very  feet !  I  sometimes  half-believe  that  they 
were  ghosts,  for  if  they  were  not,  where  are  their  bodies  ? 
Their  burial  grounds  are  gone  too,  and  —  no,  their 
buried  sleep  all  over  the  broad  land.  Last  summer,  An 
thony  brought  me  a  skull  and  the  bone  of  a  stalwart  arm. 
The  men  had  found  it  in  the  field  over  on  the  hill,  and  I 


INDIAN    RELICS.  148 

went  there,  and  found  arrow-heads  and  a  stone-hatchet, 
and  another  skull.  They  are  both  in  the  lower  drawer 
of  that  case  yonder.  I  lay  here  on  the  sofa  all  the  even 
ing,  with  one  of  those  skulls  in  my  hand,  and  sometimes 
I  exchanged  it  for  that  other  bone.  What  stout  blows  it 
had  struck  under  the  guidance  of  the  brain  within  that 
now  senseless  box  !  I  shuddered  as  I  lay  here,  and 
thought  of  the '  bloody  savages,'  and  I  turned  over  un 
easily,  but  grew  calmer  as  I  fancied  that  same  arm 
wound  around  the  neck  of  some  dark-eyed  Indian  girl. 
I  like  better  to  think  of  nations  as  made  up  of  individual 
affections,  than  to  think  of  their  wars  ;  and  yet  they  live 
longer  by  the  history  of  their  wars,  than  by  any  other 
stories.  The  love  of  Dido  would  never  have  immortal 
ized  Carthage,  had  not  Virgil  chronicled  it  in  poetry. 
While  the  African  city,  had  there  been  no  such  pens  as 
those  of  the  Roman  historians,  would  have  lived  forever 
in  legends  of  Hannibal  and  Scipio. 

"But  never  was  nation  so  effectually  blotted  out  of  ex 
istence,  as  the  brave  race  that  owned  this  soil.  There 
was  old  Chaldea,  that  lives  yet  in  the  memory  of  starry 
vigils.  There  was  Egypt,  whose  name  is  blazoned  on  glo 
rious  ruins,  around  which,  like  moonlight,  linger  the  rays 
of  a  sublime  mythology.  There  was  Greece,  whose  crum 
bling  Parthenon  whitens  her  Acropolis,  and  whose  pure 
philosophy  gleamed  through  the  blackness  of  the  dark 
ages.  There  was  old  Judea,  whose  children  are  scattered 
to  the  winds,  leaving  the  memory  of  a  temple,  which  the 
God  of  the  Temple  suffered  to  be  swept  away  from  the 


144  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    RIVER. 

earth,  because  they  had  defiled  it,  and  a  creed  which  they 
rejected  to  become  the  light  of  the  nations.  But  here  was 
a  race,  no  less  valiant  in  war,  or  loving  in  peace ;  a  family 
of  giant  .men  and  beautiful  women,  of  pure  hearts  and 
strong  hands,  who  have  left  no  foot-print  on  the  earth, 
no  names  on  the  rocks,  no  ruins,  no  creed,  no  memory, 
— unless,  as  I  like  to  fancy,  their  creed  be  written  on  the 
face  of  nature  in  flowers  and  fruits,  and  murmured  to  us 
by  the  soft  flow  of  the  river,  the  songs  of  birds,  and  the 
sighing  wind. 

"  I  held  that  skull  in  my  hand,  and  then  the  other ;  and 
at  length  I  came  to  the  conclusion  that  the  one  was  a 
man's,  and  the  other  a  woman's,  and  then  I  believe  I  fell 
asleep,  and  dreamed  out  a  story  of  them  ;  for  otherwise  I 
cannot  account  for  the  presence  of  it  in  my  brain  after 
ward,  as  an  indistinct  memory  of  something  I  had  heard. 

"  They  lived  just  here.  Precisely  where  the  old  house 
stands,  their  village  stood ;  and  on  the  mound,  out  yon 
der  by  the  grove  of  chesnuts,  stood  their  fort. 

"  This  was  the  royal  residence ;  and  the  chief  was  an 
old  man,  whose  years  had  been  years  of  battling.  Swift 
runners  could  not,  in  maay  days,  pass  over  the  lands  he 
had  conquered,  or  through  the  tribes  he  had  subjugated. 

"  He  was  dying.  The  oak  over  his  cabin  was  a  sapling 
when  he  was  made  chief;  and  it  was  now  a  stout  far- 
spreading  tree.  But  the  oak  would  live  a  hundred  years 
longer,  and  be  young  then,  while  the  chieftain  would  be 
dust — forgotten  dust.  He  knew  it;  he  felt  it.  He 
gathered  the  warriors  of  his  tribe  around  him,  and  proph- 


INDIAN    RELICS.  145 

esied  to  them  the  coming  destruction :  l  Ye  shall  fly  as 
the  snow-flakes  before  the  wind;  and,  like  them,  ye  shall 
melt  away.  I  will  await  your  coming  in  the  council  of 
the  brave  dead.  But  choose  a  chief  to  fill  my  place,  be 
fore  I  go  hence.' 

"  So  they  chose  a  young  man,  grandson  to  the  dying 
warrior,  who  had  already  led  them  to  victory  in  more 
than  one  hard-fought  battle.  And  the  old  man  laid  his 
hands  on  him,  and  bade  him  be  brave  in  the  days  that  he 
foresaw  were  coming  with  the  anger  of  the  Great  Spirit  ,• 
and  so  died.  They  buried  him  with  the  solemn  rites  due 
to  his  kingly  race ;  and  the  years  passed  on,  unmarked 
save  in  the  growing  trunks  of  the  old  oak  trees. 

"  Throw  away  that  cigar,  Phil,  and  light  a  pipe.  I 
always  smoke  one  when  I  talk  of  the  Indians." 

So  saying,  Joe  took  from  a  drawer  a  highly-ornament 
ed  and  elaborately-carved  pipe  of  stone,  and  filling  it 
with  a  broken  cigar,  puffed  leisurely,  and  continued : 

"  The  new  chief  was  a  brave  fellow.  I  like  to  speak 
of  them  as  we  speak  of  men  now-a-days.  And,  of  course, 
he  loved  a  woman.  All  brave  men  love ;  for  he  only  is 
brave  who  has  affections  to  fight  for,  whether  in  the  daily 
battle  of  life,  or  in  physical  contests.  She  was  the  fair 
est  maiden  in  all  the  north  country,  and  well  might  a 
brave  man  love  her.  Her  footstep  was  firm,  but  light. 
Her  hand  was  small ;  and  her  arm  delicately  rounded, 
but  strong.  She  was  not  large,  for  no  Indian  woman 
was  ever  large ;  but  she  looked  at  once  loveable  and  dan 
gerous.  She  could  use  her  lips  as  some  women  I  know 

7 


146          "S/     THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    RIVER. 

of  now-a-days,  to  kiss  most  deliciously,  and  to  rate  most 
soundly.  Her  hand  would  clasp  a  man's  right  gently 
and  thrillingly ;  but  if  he  looked  in  her  eye,  he  saw  a 
devil  there,  and  knew  that  that  hand  could  use  a  knife  as 
well.  Women  are " 

"  Women,  Joe  !"  said  I,  interrupting  him. 

"  Exactly.  She  was  a  noble  creature ;  and  you  would 
have  loved  her  had  you  met  her;<with  her  gorgeous  robe 
of  the  plumage  of  birds  hanging  over  "oti'e  shoulder,  while 
the  other  sunned  itself.  And  so  the  Chief  loved  her ; 
and  they  would  have  had  a  lodge  together,  had  not  news 
come  suddenly,  that  the  Eastern  nations  were  overrun 
ning  the  country ;  and  they  made  ready  for  battle.  It 
was  but  little  labor  for  the  warriors  of  that  day  to  pre 
pare  for  the  field.  An  additional  coat  of  paint  on  their 
hideous  faces,  a  few  hard  rubs  of  their  stone  hatchets  and 
knives  on  a  convenient  rock,  a  little  tightening  of  the 
belt,  and  perhaps  a  few  new  arrows,  and  all  was  ready. 

"  Night  came  down  quietly,  as  it  comes  down  now;  and 
on  the  shore,  by  the  old  rock  seat,  were  standing  the 
Chief  and  the  Wild  Kose  of  the  wood.  She  did  not  be 
seech  him,  as  our  mawkish  maidens  beseech  their  lovers, 
to  remain  at  home,  and  let  their  brethren  fight  and  die ! 
She  did  not  twine  her  arms  around  his  neck,  and  weep  on 
his  bosom,  and  ask  him  if  the  hatchet  of  the  Pequot  were 
dangerous,  and  if  the  Wolves  of  the  East  were  fierce  in 
battle.  She  did  not  even  beg  him  to  stand  behind  the 
trees,  and  not  expose  himself  to  the  arrows  of  the  foe,  as 
mothers,  and  sisters,  and  maidens  in  these  improved 


INDIAN    RELICS.  147 

days,  beg  of  their  warrior  boys.  Not  she.  With  loving 
arm  around  him,  she  led  him  to  the  rock,  and,  seated  by 
him  there,  watched  the  stars,  and  begged  to  go  with  him 
to  the  field,  until  she  prevailed  and  he  consented. 

"  They  went,  and  they  returned.  They  went  swiftly 
with  a  thousand  men ;  they  returned  step  by  step,  inch 
by  inch,  beaten  back  by  an  overwhelming  force,  leaving 
their  warriors'  bodies  strewed  along  the  way.  Now,  the 
Rose  proved  that  she  had  a  thorn.  Hovering  around  the 
Chief,  she  thrice  warned  him  of  danger,  and  saved  him ; 
and  she  was  by  his  side  unharmed,  when  they  at  length 
entered  the  fort  with  but  fifty  of  the  tribe  to  defend  that 
last  entrenchment.  The  enemy  had  swept  over  the  coun 
try  ;  had  laid  waste  the  land ;  had  burned  the  villages ; 
had  carried  away  the  women  and  children ;  had  murdered 
the  men  at  the  stake  by  every  torture  which  savage 
cruelty  could  invent;  until  at  length  the  invaders  by 
thousands,  having  completed  their  work,  surrounded  this 
gallant  fifty,  and  devoted  all  their  energies  to  their  de 
struction.  Devising,  at  length,  the  atrocious  plan  of 
starving  them  from  their  retreat,  or  condemning  them  to 
a  lingering  death  with  hunger,  they  sat  down  around 
the  palisade.  Within,  all  was  calm  despair.  No  man 
thought  of  life ;  but  all  remembered  the  words  of  the  old 
chieftain,  and  solemnly  prepared  themselves  to  join  him 
in  council  up  yonder. 

At  length  the  warrior  girl  proposed  a  desperate  sally 
and  a  noble  death.  Listening  to  her,  as  the  Indians  al 
ways  listened  to  the  maidens  of  their  royal  line,  as  one 


148  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY   THE    RIVER. 

inspired  of  God,  the  hardy  band  prepared  to  make  a  final 
effort  to  vindicate  their  national  honor,  and  to  die  on  the 
soil  they  loved. 

One  by  one  kneeling  at  the  holy  girl's  feet,  they  vowed 
to  die  that  day ;  and  then  with  a  yell,  that  I  sometimes 
hear  of  a  windy  night  in  the  woods  yet,  they  rushed  out 
on  the  surprised  foe.  They  hewed  down  unresisting  men 
by  hundreds,  and  fought  their  way  to  the  very  outer  verge 
of  the  line  of  the  enemy,  when  the  opposing  force  thick 
ened  before  them,  and  they  stood  still  and  fought  and 
fell.  The  chief  was  in  advance  of  all,  save  that  match 
less  girl,  who  struck  blow  for  blow  with  him,  and  before 
whose  demoniacal  eye  the  enemy  shrank  as  from  a  mes 
senger  of  heaven.  All  but  ten  of  their  companions  were 
slain,  and  they  fought  still,  untouched.  Arrows  flew 
harmlessly  by  them.  Hatchets  were  warded  off  by  un 
seen  hands.  The  dead  lay  piled  about  them,  and  still  no 
blood  issued  from  either  of  those  brave  bodies. 

Five  of  their  comrades  fell ;  another  and  another — and 
they  fought  alone.  For  a  moment  the  opposing  force 
shrank  back,  and  they  stood  idly  regarding  the  eyes  of 
their  enemies.  Turning  to  him,  the  Rose  smiled  and  the 
woman  triumphed  for  a  moment  over  the  fiend.  She 
gently  laid  her  bloody  arm  around  his  neck  and  lifted 
herself  to  his  breast  and  clung  to  him — but  only  for  an 
instant — and  murmuring  of  the  blessed  land,  and  the 
great  council  fires,  and  the  love  of  maidens  there,  fell  on 
the  ground.  He  fell  with  her.  A  hundred  arrows  had 
pierced  them  both,  and  the  old  chief  welcomed  his  brave 


INDIAN    RELICS.  149 

grandson  and  his  noble  wife  at  the  door  of  his  lodge  in 
the  distant  hunting  grounds." 

"A  very  good  story,  Willis — not  bad,  for  you  to  have 
manufactured  out  of  one  truth.  I  believe  the  Pequot  in 
vasion  is  the  only  fact  in  it,  is  it  not  ?" 

"  I  can't  vouch  for  that,"  replied  Willis. 


XL 


are  several  grand  trout  streams,  about  twenty 
-*-  miles  from  us,  among  the  hills,  and  fortunately  they 
are  so  inaccessible  and  so  little  known,  that  hardly  any 
one  disturbs  our  monopoly  of  the  angling.  We  drive  out 
to  a  friend's  place,  which  is  near  the  principal  stream, 
and  taking  him  with  us,  we  three  form  a  pleasant  party 
for  a  day's  sport. 

Jacob  Small  is  an  enormous  man.  Two  hundred  and 
fifty  is  a  moderate  estimate  of  his  weight.  He  lives  in  a 
farm-house  on  the  edge  of  the  hill  country,  where  the 
stream  breaks  out  into  the  plains  and  sweeps  away  in 
lordly  style  to  the  bosom  of  the  great  river. 

His  farm-house  is  large,  and  filled  with  the  luxuries  of 
the  country,  which  his  acres  have  furnished ;  and,  with  a 
moderate  income  to  sustain  his  experimental  farming,  he 
manages  to  be  a  country  gentleman  in  every  acceptation 
of  the  term.  A  good,  warm  heart,  has  Jacob  Small,  and 
a  liberal  hand  to  the  poor  around  him.  The  mountaineers 
in  his  neighborhood  would  starve  in  the  winter  snows,  if 
his  farm  were  not  at  the  foot  of  the  pass,  and  his  door 
always  open  to  the  needy. 


154  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    RIVER. 

It  was  a  cool,  soft  morning,  in  the  middle  of  spring. 
The  stars  were  bright  and  clear,  so  that  you  expected  to 
feel  frost  in  the  atmosphere,  and  were  surprised  when  you 
stepped  out  into  the  air  to  find  it  as  soft  and  balmy  as  a 
June  mid-day.  Such  an  air  promised  a  good  day,  and, 
for  the  water  that  we  proposed  to  whip,  it  was  preferable 
to  have  clear  sunshine  rather  than  clouds  or  rain. 

The  horses  stood  at  the  door,  before  the  box  wagon, 
which  has  no  springs,  and  rattles  musically  over  moun 
tain  roads.  A  bag  of  oats  and  a  bundle  of  hay  lay  in  the 
wagon,  and  our  rods,  which  had  been  carefully  examined 
the  evening  previous,  were  standing  just  within  the  great 
hall  door,  so  that  we  took  them  as  we  came  out. 

"  Philip,"  said  Joseph,  "  take  the  reins  if  you  please, 
while  I  light  a  cigar.  I  must  have  slept  too  soundly ; 
my  eyes  are  sadly  unwilling  to  open." 

"  Look  up  at  that  sky,  Joe,  and  your  eyes  will  open." 

In  the  east,  where  the  dawn  was  to  come,  a  star, 
bright  as  an  angel's  eye,  was  gleaming  from  the  midst 
of  rays  of  light  streaming  up  over  the  hills.  The  scene 
was  enough  to  rouse  one  who  had  no  love  for  the  beauti 
ful  ;  and,  to  as  keen  an  observer  as  my  friend,  and  as  fine 
appreciation  as  he  possesses,  such  a  morning,  and  such  a 
coming  day,  were  invigorating  beyond  all  physical  appli 
ances. 

So  I  took  the  reins,  and  the  grays  sprang  off  from  the 
hard  gravel  before  the  door,  and  went  down  the  avenue 
as  if  they  were  trout  lovers  themselves,  and  knew  that 
Jacob  Small  was  expecting  them. 


TROUT-FISHING.  155 

Before  six  o'clock,  we  drove  up  to  Jacob's  great  gate, 
which  was  opened  for  us  by  a  passing  laborer,  and,  rat 
tling  around  the  corner  of  the  house,  we  woke  him  with 
a  shout  under  his  window. 

"Why  Jacob — Jacob  Small,  man — where  are  you 
this  fine  morning — and  didn't  you  know  we  were  coming 
out  ?  I  sent  you  word  by  Thompson,  a  week  ago." 

"  Deuce  take  Thompson !"  muttered  a  voice  in  the 
room,  which  we  could  hear  through  the  open  window, 
close  to  which  we  sat  in  the  wagon.  "  I  say,  Philip,  did 
you  send  me  any  word  by  Thompson,  last  week  ?" 

"  Of  course,  I  did,  Jacob." 

"  Of  course  you  did.  Thompson  never  gets  drunk,  ex 
cept  when  he  has  some  message  for  me.  He  stopped  at 
the  cross-roads  on  his  way  up,  drank  all  the  afternoon 
with  some  of  those  scoundrels  there,  started  for  here  in 
the  evening,  drove  his  team  off  the  long  bridge,  and  lost 
a  barrel  of  molasses,  besides  nearly  killing  a  horse." 

"  And  what  became  of  Thompson  ?" 

"  Deuce  take  Thompson — just  like  him — lie  broke  his 
neck — no,  his  back — no,  his  ribs,  or  his  legs,  or  some 
thing  of  the  sort.  The  doctor  knows  what  it  is :  I 
don't." 

"  The  doctor  !  what  doctor  ?" 

"  Doctor  Wilson,  of  course.  I  sent  an  express  off  after 
him,  and  have  had  him  here  every  other  day.  But  what 
word  did  you  send  me  by  Thompson?  Deuce  take 
Thompson,  I  say." 

"  Never  mind  the  word,  Jacob ;  but  if  you  are  dressed, 


156  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    RIVER. 

come  along  to  the  brook.     We  want  some  trout  for  din 
ner  to-morrow;  and  we  are  off  for  the  day." 

"  All  right,  Joseph ;  wait  a  minute,  and  I'm  with  you. 
But  let  me  send  Thompson  his  gruel." 

"  Where  is  he,  Jacob  ?" 

"  Up  stairs,  to  be  sure." 

Jacob  attended  to  the  sick  man  about  whom  he  was  so 
indignant,  and  mingled  his  kindness  with  scolding,  in 
very  fair  proportions,  as  we  could  hear,  while  we  sat  in 
the  wagon. 

At  length  he  came  out,  puffing  and  groaning  with  his 
haste ;  one  hand  being  occupied  in  a  successful  endeavor 
to  penetrate  the  lining  of  an  old  sporting  coat  instead  of 
the  sleeve,  while  the  whole  man  seemed  intent  on  holding 
fast  under  his  left  arm  a  case  containing  his  rod  and  gun. 
A  little  negro  boy  followed  him,  chuckling  and  lugging  a 
huge  basket,  which  Jacob  lifted  into  the  wagon.  He 
then  tumbled  in,  and  deposited  himself  between  Joe  and 
myself,  thus  forcing  each  of  us  into  about  half  of  his  nat 
ural  size,  and  exclaimed,  "Drive  on  Joe,  my  boy;  all 
ready." 

Joe  looked  comically  at  him,  and  handed  over  the 
lines ;  Jacob  took  them  without  a  word,  and  drove  off. 
Possibly  three  minutes  might  have  passed  in  silence, 
when  I  saw  that  he  was  taking  a  road  which  led  directly 
away  from  our  intended  fishing-ground. 

"  I  say,  Jacob,  if  you  have  no  objections,  where  are 
we  going,  and  why  couldn't  you  give  us  some  break 
fast?" 


TROUT-FISHING.  157 

"  Breakfast  ?  Plenty  in  the  basket  there,  my  dear  boy, 
help  yourself.  Fine  cold  chicken,  ham,  bread  and  a  bot 
tle  of  chocolate.  Three  of  the  fattest  duck  you  ever  saw, 
the  small  sort,  and  a  brace  of  quail ;  some  hot  Johnny- 
cake,  and  sundries  beside.  But  observe.  The  white  mill 
brook  hasn't  been  touched  this  spring  above  the  bridge. 
This  morning  three  fellows  from  the  river  came  over 
and  have  just  gone  by.  I'm  suspicious  they  mean  to 
whip  the  brook  up  from  the  bridge,  with  the  wind.  Now, 
if  we  drive  fast  we  can  reach  the  wolf-hole  by  seven  o'clock, 
and  come  down.  There  '11  be  no  wind  up  there,  and  we 
can  whip  two  rods  to  their  one.  There  is  fan  to  be  had, 
and  we'll  just  try  it.  What  say  you  ?" 

Joe  and  I  replied  by  attacking  the  breakfast,  while 
the  horses  flew  as  if  they  knew  the  hurry  Jacob  was  in. 
Over  the  hill  and  through  the  wood  and  down  along  the 
hickory  swale,  and  then  we  dashed  into  the  narrow  road 
that  led  along  the  side  of  the  mountain,  and  after  about 
fifteen  minutes  of  slower  travelling,  Jacob  pulled  up  in  a 
grove  of  oak  trees,  under  the  lea  of  a  knoll,  which  pro 
tected  the  horses  perfectly  from  the  March  wind.  Here 
we  made  them  as  comfortable  as  might  be,  and  left  Nora 
to  guard  them  while  we  prepared  our  tackle  and  ap 
proached  the  water. 

About  two  hundred  yards  below  the  grove  where  we 
left  our  horses,  the  brook  entered  suddenly  a  gorge  or 
ravine,  and  plunged  down  a  series  of  small  and  abrupt 
falls,  until  it  reached  a  comparatively  level  country,  and 
thence  flowed  in  a  deep  stream  with  occasional  rapids 


158  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    RIVER. 

and  bends,  and  some  short  descents,  out  toward  the  white 
mill,  six  miles  below.  Singularly  enough,  the  trout  in  the 
upper  part  of  the  brook  were  totally  different  from  those 
below  the  ravine  ;  those  above  seldom  growing  to  half  the 
size  of  many  in  the  open  country.  They  were  apparently 
of  a  different  breed,  although  on  examination  proving  to 
be  the  same  in  all  respects,  except  the  shape  of  the  bod}^. 
We  commenced  our  descent  of  the  ravine  with  some  cau 
tion,  Jacob  leading  and  I  bringing  up  the  rear.  Our 
progress  was  safe  until  we  reached  the  last  step  from 
which  the  brook  dashed,  and  here  I  called  out  to  Jacob 
to  stand  still,  while  I  threw  over  his  head  and  tried  the 
basin  below.  A  statue  could  not  be  more  motionless 
than  he  was  until  I  made  a  second  cast,  when  he  saw  a 
good  two  pounds  of  fish,  with  gold  and  crimson  spots  on 
his  back,  rise  at  my  white  fly,  and  hook  himself  as  desper 
ately  as  if  he  meant  it.  Then,  in  his  delight,  Jacob  ex 
claimed  aloud,  and  on  the  instant  of  speaking  he  vanish 
ed  out  of  sight.  Never  was  feat  of  magic  more  rapid 
and  astounding.  The  rock  on  which  he  had  been  standing 
was  worn,  and  the  winter  ice  had  cracked  it  so  that  the 
outer  edge  of  it  fell  with  Jacob  into  the  basin  in  which 
my  trout  was  struggling.  Puflmg  and  blowing  he  came 
up  to  the  surface,  only  to  meet  Joe's  provokingly  cool 
countenance  and  voice. 

"  Why,  Jacob — Jacob  Small,  I  say,  don't  be  in  such  a 
hurry  after  the  trout,  man ;  let's  all  have  a  fair  chance." 

He  made  the  best  of  his  way  to  the  bank,  on  which  he 
sat  down,  and  the  only  consolation  he  appeared  to  find 


TROUT-FISHING.  159 

was  in  the  fact,  that  while  I  had  been  laughing  till  my 
sides  ached,  the  trout  had  unhooked  himself,  and  was 
away  down  the  stream  to  tell  his  neighbors  that  we  were 
coming. 

The  first  large  fish  hooked  was  about  fifty  rods  below 
Jacob's  bathing  place.  On  the  bank  stood  an  oak  tree, 
and  in  the  middle  of  the  stream  was  a  large  rock,  around 
which  the  water  gurgled  and  rusljed  swiftly.  In  the 
wake  of  the  rock,  or  below  it,  was  still  deep  water,  and  as 
Jacob's  hook  fell  in  just  above  it  and  passed  into  the  still 
water  below,  a  fine  fish,  weighing  at  least  three  pounds, 
took  the  bait.  For  Jacob  disdained  flies  until  May,  and 
I  more  than  half  agree  with  him. 

The  tip  of  his  rod  was  almost  as  slender  as  a  knitting 
needle.  It  was  one  of  his  own  make,  and  a  graceful  rod 
it  was  in  his  hands.  The  small  stick  was  bent  nearly 
double  at  times,  and  swayed  to  and  fro,  as  the  fish  tried 
now  one  bank  of  the  brook,  now  the  other.  We  were 
none  of  us  visible.  Jacob's  head  and  shoulders  might 
perhaps  have  been  seen  at  one  moment,  but  the  trout  was 
contending  with  an  invisible  foe. 

"  Keep  quiet,  boys.  There's  another  one  in  the  eddy 
there,  and  I'll  have  him  after  I  get  through  with  this 
one.  I  say,  Philip,  just  cast  your  fly  across  the  ripple 
on  the  other  side  of  the  rock  ;  but  lie  low,  while  you  are 
about  it." 

I  obeyed,  and,  at  the  third  cast,  pricked  a  good-sized 
fish,  but  did  not  hook  him.  Once  more,  and  he  rose  to 
it  finely  this  time,  but  dashed  down  the  stream,  under 


162  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    RIVER. 

the  hook  through  one  of  these,  so  as  to  leave  him  free  to 
move,  and  taking  in  all  my  line  but  a  fathom  or  so,  held 
my  rod  carefully  over  the  water,  so  that  the  worm  should 
occasionally  touch  it,  and  disturb  the  glassy  smoothness 
of  the  pool.  This  bait  took.  The  first  touch  of  the 
worm  to  the  surface  was  answered  by  a  rush  of  two  large 
fish ;  of  course  one  only  succeeding  in  hooking  himself. 
The  reel  flew  around  swiftly  at  first,  but  he  took  not 
more  than  ten  fathoms  of  line,  and  buried  himself  under 
the  opposite  bank  of  the  basin.  I  had  not  felt  him  yet  to 
judge  of  his  weight  and  strength,  and  the  capability  of  my 
rod  to  land  him.  I  had  but  a  slight  lance-wood  and 
bone  tip;  and  though  it  would  bend  double  without 
breaking  last  year,  I  feared  that  it  might  have  become 
dry  in  the  winter. 

Gently  drawing  on  him  as  he  lay  in  his  hole,  I  had  op 
portunity  to  weigh  him  ;  and  thinking  that  he  could  not 
go  over  three  pounds,  I  determined  to  try  a  dead  lift  on 
him,  and  accordingly  teased  him  till  he  started  out,  and 
I  reeled  in  as  he  came  across  toward  me. 

But  he  was  too  stout  a  swimmer  for  my  rod.  The  first 
lift  I  made,  bent  the  tip  to  a  semicircle,  and  I  saw  that 
the  curve  was  slightly  broken  in  one  point,  which  I  feared 
would  prove  weak,  and  I  let  him  go. 

I  had  not  yet  exposed  myself,  and  did  not  wish  to  do 
so.  I  took  a  position  near  the  outlet  of  the  pool,  behind 
the  trunk  of  a  fallen  tree,  and  endeavored  to  drown  him, 
but  he  kept  a  lively  play  around  the  upper  part  of  the 
basin  for  ten  minutes,  and  then  made  a  sudden  dash  di- 


TROUT-FISHING. 


163 


rectly  toward  me.  As  he  came  into  shoal  water  near  me, 
I  confess  that  I  was  guilty  of  unfairness  :  I  struck  at  him 
with  the  branch  of  a  tree  that  lay  near,  and  effectually 
stopped  him. 

The  one  that  had  attempted  to  seize  my  hook,  and 
failed,  had  now  a  claim  on  my  attention.  I  prepared 
another  fly  precisely  as  the  former  one  was  baited,  and 
hooked  another  fish  at  the  second  or  third  cast.  This 
was  done  under  the  waterfall,  and  he  seemed  to  be  aware 
of  the  fate  of  his  predecessor,  for  with  praiseworthy 
acuteness,  he  made  a  straight  course  down  stream.  I  fol 
lowed  with  what  haste  I  could.  But  he  was  fast  taking 
out  my  line,  and  I  gave  him  fifty  fathoms  before  I  had 
run  as  many  myself. 

The  bank  of  the  stream  was  impracticable  for  me  so 
long  as  I  held  my  rod,  and  I  took  to  the  water.  Check 
ing  my  fish  as  well  as  I  could,  I  followed  him  down 
more  than  a  quarter  of  a  mile,  when  I  succeeded  in  stop 
ping  him,  and  advanced  toward  him.  He  had  gone  un 
der  the  bank  on  the  side  of  a  rapid,  and  I  approached 
with  care,  placed  my  hand  under  him,  and  as  he  settled 
into  my  grasp,  I  introduced  a  thumb  and  finger  into  his 
gills,  and  lifted  him  into  my  basket. 

At  this  moment  I  heard  Joe's  voice  within  a  few  rods 
of  me. 

"  Why,  Jacob,  man — what  are  you  about  ?  The  sec 
ond  time  to-day  !  Is  that  the  way  you  do  your  trouting  ? 
Upon  my  word,  Jacob,  I'll  have  you  indicted  for  robbing 
the  brooks,  if  you  go  into  it  in  that  sort  of  way." 


164  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    RIVER. 

Hastening  toward  them,  I  saw  Jacob  floundering  in  the 
middle  of  the  brook,  and  Joe  standing  on  the  bank  and 
preaching  to  him.  Small  had  hooked  a  trout,  and  zeal 
ously  followed  him  down  the  stream,  but  stepping  incau 
tiously  on  a  rock,  which  was  as  smooth  as  ice,  he  had 
plunged  feet  foremost  down  a  rapid,  in  which  he  was  lying 
when  I  came  up.  Nothing  discouraged,  however,  he 
gathered  up  himself,  and  his  rod  which  had  never  left 
his  hand,  and  coolly  and  carefully  landed  a  very  respect 
able  fish,  which,  to  judge  from  the  quietness  with  which 
he  allowed  himself  to  be  taken,  had  been  astonished  into 
torpor  by  the  unusual  invasion  of  his  territories. 

Jacob  now  sought  a  sunny  place  in  which  to  dry  him 
self,  and  found  it  at  an  angle  of  the  brook,  where  it 
swept  around  a  grassy  point  on  the  one  side,  and  under 
a  dark  rock  on  the  other.  Willis  stood  by  him,  profess 
ing  to  watch  lest  he  dissolved — but  in  fact  to  talk  about 
certain  farm  matters,  wherein  Joe  wanted  the  opinion  of 
a  man  of  Jacob's  experience — while  I  sat  on  a  rock,  in 
the  centre  of  the  stream,  and  threw  my  fly  under  the 
high  bank  opposite  to  them. 

But  here  I  took  no  fish,  and  my  exertions  subsided 
into  a  lazy  casting  of  my  fly,  until  at  length  I  gave  over 
even  that,  and  enjoyed  the  scene  while  I  listened  to  the 
conversation  between  Willis  and  Small. 

It  was  very  still  and  calm  in  the  glen,  and  the  sound 
of  the  wind  in  the  tree-tops  was  like  distant  music. 
The  sunshine  stole  down  through  the  hemlock  and  pine 
branches,  and  danced  on  the  ripples  as  lightly  as  if  glad 


TROUT-FISHING.  165 

to  find  a  place  to  dance  after  long  travel  through  the  blue. 
The  air  was  life-giving  and  rich.  The  sky  seemed  rest 
ing  on  the  tree  tops  that  fringed  the  mountain  ridges ; 
and  one  could  not  look  up  without  that  longing  to  be 
away  in  the  cool  rich  air,  floating,  not  flying,  which  a 
warm  spring  day  almost  invariably  inspires. 

Suddenly,  however,  Joe  interrupted  himself  in  the 
middle  of  a  sentence,  ran  toward  the  stream,  and  made  a 
swift  but  graceful  cast  of  his  line  across  a  fallen  tree  that 
obstructed  the  flow  of  the  rapid ;  and  by  the  sharp  whirr 
of  his  reel,  I  knew  that  he  had  hooked  a  large  fish.  For 
ten  minutes  he  battled  with  him,  and  at  length  con 
quered.  He  was  a  noble  fellow,  and  required  the  land 
ing-hook  to  bring  him  out. 

We  had  now  as  many  fish  as  we  cared  for ;  and  we 
returned  to  the  basin,  to  finish  our  forenoon's  sport 
there. 

In  this  large  basin  the  trout  abound ;  and  we  never 
failed  to  hook  as  many  as  we  had  lines  in  it.  But  after 
once  hooking  a  fish,  it  becomes  necessary  to  expose  your 
self,  and  usually  to  take  to  the  water  before  you  can  get 
your  fish  out.  The  result,  of  course,  is,  that  you  are  not 
apt  to  hook  a  second  one  immediately. 

But  we  took  our  places  separately,  and  each  man  cast 
in  his  own  part  of  the  basin.  In  a  moment  we  had  each 
hooked  a  fish ;  and  in  the  next  moment,  the  three  had 
gone  to  the  centre  of  the  basin,  swam  around  each  other, 
twisted  up  our  lines,  and  made  as  great  a  scene  of  confu 
sion  as  could  be  desired.  There  was  but  one  resource : 


166  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    RIVER. 

we  wound  the  lines  still  more  firmly  around  each  other, 
and  then  worked  all  together.  In  five  minutes  I  parted 
my  line,  and  Jacob's  followed.  Joe  had  the  three  fish 
on  his  rod ;  and  as  the  three  lines  were  wet,  it  was  hardly 
probable  they  would  unwind.  It  required  careful  man 
agement,  however,  to  kill  the  three  fish ;  and  Joe  went  to 
work  deliberately. 

For  ten  minutes,  or  more,  he  teazed  them,  and  let 
them  teaze  each  other.  After  pulling  different  ways, 
tearing  one  another's  mouths,  and  various  futile  attempts 
at  escape,  they  grew  sluggish,  and  allowed  themselves  to 
be  dragged  around. 

He  now  led  them  slowly  down  toward  the  rapid  outlet 
of  the  basin,  which  spread  out  into  a  broad  stream,  run 
ning  over  gravel  and  stone.  A  vigorous  and  watchful 
hand  led  all  three  into  a  shallow  side  stream,  where  they 
suddenly  found  themselves  with  their  backs  out  of  water, 
and  our  landing  hooks  readily  secured  them. 

It  was  now  past  noon,  and  we  had  taken  a  large  lot  of 
fine  fish.  We  accordingly  returned  to  the  wagon,  and 
drove  down  to  Jacob's  for  luncheon,  of  which  an  import 
ant  part  was  one  of  the  last  three  trout  we  had  taken. 

The  afternoon  was  windy,  but  not  cold.  We  had  made 
an  engagement  to  attend  a  wedding,  which  was  to  take 
place  that  evening ;  and  we  had  as  much  as  we  could  well 
do,  therefore,  to  reach  home  in  time  for  dinner,  and  dress 
and  go  over  to  the  village.  But  the  horses  were  as  fresh 
as  at  daylight,  and  we  rattled  along  the  road  at  a  good 
pace,  reaching  the  old  house  as  Anthony  was  ordering  up 


TROUT-FISHING.  167 

dinner.  For  he  had  a  house  full  of  company,  and  dinner 
never  waits  if  there  is  any  one  to  eat  it.  Lucy,  with  her 
husband  and  some  friends,  had  come  out  from  the  city ; 
and  we  invited  them  to  accompany  us  to  the  wedding,  to 
which  they  readily  assented. 

We  invited  them,  for  Lucy  was  welcome  everywhere 
of  course,  and  as  to  the  others,  in  our  country,  such  in 
vitations  are  not  only  allowable,  but  expected.  An  in 
vitation  includes  a  family  and  all  the  friends  that  happen 
to  be  in  the  house,  and  we  drove  over  to  the  village 
church  with  a  brilliant  party,  full  of  gaiety  and  assured 
of  a  welcome. 

The  church  was  sparkling  with  the  beauty  and  youth 
of  the  whole  country  around,  for  the  wedding  of  Mary 
Grant  was  an  event  looked  for  by  all  who  had  lived  in 
our  neighborhood  with  interest  and  eagerness.  So  great 
a  crowd  claimed  a  right  to  be  present  at  the  ceremony, 
that,  contrary  to  the  usual  custom,  the  church  had  been 
selected  for  its  consummation. 

Richard  Grant,  the  village  schoolmaster,  was  an  old 
man  when  I  was  a  boy.  He  was  an  older  man  now  by 
many  very  sorrowful  years.  When  I  left  his  care  and 
was  sent  with  Joe  Willis  to  college,  I  believe  that  the 
old  man  could  say  that  he  had  never  lost  by  death  one 
dear  friend.  Since  that  time  his  wife  has  lain  down  in 
the  church-yard,  and  his  son  and  daughter  have  found 
sleep  by  her  side.  Three  grand-children,  the  youngest 
like  his  daughter  Mary  in  her  youth,  with  the  same 
brown  hair  and  clear  complexion,  and  hazel  eyes,  were 


166  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY   THE    RIVER. 

we  wound  the  lines  still  more  firmly  around  each  other, 
and  then  worked  all  together.  In  five  minutes  I  parted 
my  line,  and  Jacob's  followed.  Joe  had  the  three  fish 
on  his  rod ;  and  as  the  three  lines  were  wet,  it  was  hardly 
probable  they  would  unwind.  It  required  careful  man 
agement,  however,  to  kill  the  three  fish ;  and  Joe  went  to 
work  deliberately. 

For  ten  minutes,  or  more,  he  teazed  them,  and  let 
them  teaze  each  other.  After  pulling  different  ways, 
tearing  one  another's  mouths,  and  various  futile  attempts 
at  escape,  they  grew  sluggish,  and  allowed  themselves  to 
be  dragged  around. 

He  now  led  them  slowly  down  toward  the  rapid  outlet 
of  the  basin,  which  spread  out  into  a  broad  stream,  run 
ning  over  gravel  and  stone.  A  vigorous  and  watchful 
hand  led  all  three  into  a  shallow  side  stream,  where  they 
suddenly  found  themselves  with  their  backs  out  of  water, 
and  our  landing  hooks  readily  secured  them. 

It  was  now  past  noon,  and  we  had  taken  a  large  lot  of 
fine  fish.  We  accordingly  returned  to  the  wagon,  and 
drove  down  to  Jacob's  for  luncheon,  of  which  an  import 
ant  part  was  one  of  the  last  three  trout  we  had  taken. 

The  afternoon  was  windy,  but  not  cold.  We  had  made 
an  engagement  to  attend  a  wedding,  which  was  to  take 
place  that  evening ;  and  we  had  as  much  as  we  could  well 
do,  therefore,  to  reach  home  in  time  for  dinner,  and  dress 
and  go  over  to  the  village.  But  the  horses  were  as  fresh 
as  at  daylight,  and  we  rattled  along  the  road  at  a  good 
pace,  reaching  the  old  house  as  Anthony  was  ordering  up 


TROUT-FISHING.  167 

dinner.  For  he  had  a  house  full  of  company,  and  dinner 
never  waits  if  there  is  any  one  to  eat  it.  Lucy,  with  her 
husband  and  some  friends,  had  come  out  from  the  city ; 
and  we  invited  them  to  accompany  us  to  the  wedding,  to 
which  they  readily  assented. 

We  invited  them,  for  Lucy  was  welcome  everywhere 
of  course,  and  as  to  the  others,  in  our  country,  such  in 
vitations  are  not  only  allowable,  but  expected.  An  in 
vitation  includes  a  family  and  all  the  friends  that  happen 
to  be  in  the  house,  and  we  drove  over  to  the  village 
church  with  a  brilliant  party,  full  of  gaiety  and  assured 
of  a  welcome. 

The  church  was  sparkling  with  the  beauty  and  youth 
of  the  whole  country  around,  for  the  wedding  of  Mary 
Grant  was  an  event  looked  for  by  all  who  had  lived  in 
our  neighborhood  with  interest  and  eagerness.  So  great 
a  crowd  claimed  a  right  to  be  present  at  the  ceremony, 
that,  contrary  to  the  usual  custom,  the  church  had  been 
selected  for  its  consummation. 

Richard  Grant,  the  village  schoolmaster,  was  an  old 
man  when  I  was  a  boy.  He  was  an  older  man  now  by 
many  very  sorrowful  years.  When  I  left  his  care  and 
was  sent  with  Joe  Willis  to  college,  I  believe  that  the 
old  man  could  say  that  he  had  never  lost  by  death  one 
dear  friend.  Since  that  time  his  wife  has  lain  down  in 
the  church-yard,  and  his  son  and  daughter  have  found 
sleep  by  her  side.  Three  grand-children,  the  youngest 
like  his  daughter  Mary  in  her  youth,  with  the  same 
brown  hair  and  clear  complexion,  and  hazel  eyes,  were 


168         THE  OLD  HOUSE  BY  THE  RIVER. 

left  to  the  old  man's  care.  And  to  aid  him  in  their  edu 
cation,  a  small  fortune  opportunely  came  to  them  through 
a  distant  relative  of  their  father.  They  grew  up  into  the 
likeness  of  their  mother,  kind,  faithful,  and  loving,  and 
the  two  sons  were  placed  in  excellent  positions  to  pre 
pare  themselves  for  business  men  in  the  city.  Mary,  the 
grand-daughter,  never  dreamed  of  leaving  the  old  man, 
and  as  he  grew  more  feeble  and  wayward  she  clung  to 
him  the  more  fondly.  It  was  doubtless  this  one  absorb 
ing  employment  which  prevented  her  from  listening  to 
the  village  lovers  who  wooed  her,  and  she  had  reached 
twenty,  and  was  heart-whole,  when  an  accident  occurred 
which  produced  a  change  in  her  life. 

Old  Mr.  Grant,  while  coming  home  from  the  school 
one  summer  afternoon,  was  passing  across  the  bridge 
which  is  in  the  middle  of  the  village,  when  a  plank  which 
had  grown  weak  and  rotten,  broke,  and  threw  him  down. 
The  accident  might  not  have  been  serious,  had  he  not 
fallen  so  near  the  edge  of  the  bridge,  that  in  attempting 
to  rise,  he  made  a  misstep,  and  plunged  into  the  creek 
some  twenty  feet  below.  Fifty  persons  saw  the  occur 
rence,  and  hastened  to  his  rescue.  But  as  usual,  of  the 
fifty,  forty-nine  were  willing  to  shout  and  direct,  while 
only  one  was  prompt  to  act,  and  this  one  was  a  stranger, 
who  was  crossing  the  bridge  on  horseback  at  the  moment 
of  the  occurrence.  He  was  a  young  man,  of  decidedly 
prepossessing  appearance,  and  withal  was  remarkably 
well  dressed.  So  at  least  said  those  who  saw  him  before 
the  accident ;  after  it,  his  dress  was  hardly  in  a  condition 


TROUT-FISHING.  169 

to  be  praised.  He  swung  himself  from  the  bridge,  and 
while  the  other  forty-nine  were  running  for  ropes,  and 
planks,  and  poles,  and  the  old  man  in  the  meantime  was 
drowning,  he  dropped  into  a  deep  hole  in  the  water,  came 
up  instantly,  swam  toward  the  place  where  he  had  last 
seen  Mr.  Grant,  seized  him  by  the  collar  and  held  his 
head  up  with  his  right  hand,  while  he  swam  stoutly  with 
the  left,  and  reached  the  shore.  There,  of  course,  the 
original  number  of  volunteers  was  quadrupled,  and  at 
least  two  hundred  people  were  anxiously  waiting  to  carry 
Mr.  Grant  home  to  Mary,  who  was  terribly  frightened  at 
the  wet  and  bleeding  apparition  which  she  met  at  the 
door. 

In  the  meantime  the  stranger  had  found  his  horse,  and 
gone  unattended  to  the  tavern,  where  he  was  soon  cared 
for  externally  and  internally.  He  presented  a  curious 
appearance,  however,  in  the  landlord's  clothes,  which 
were  a  world  too  wide  and  a  foot  too  short  for  him. 
He  did  well,  under  such  circumstances,  to  decline  Mary 
Grant's  invitation  to  change  his  quarters  for  the  night. 

The  next  day  Mr.  Grant  was  evidently  feverish,  and 
the  stranger  was  still  invisible,  his  clothes  being  past  all 
use,  and  he  waiting  for  the  village  tailor  to  fit  him  out. 
And  a  curious  fit  he  made  of  it.  But  such  as  it  was,  he 
called  at  Mr.  Grant's  in  the  afternoon  of  the  second  day, 
just  in  time  to  meet  a  committee  of  the  school  trustees, 
who  had  called  to  consult  the  old  gentleman  on  the 
management  of  affairs  during  his  illness. 

The  stranger,  who  had  sent  in  his  card  with  the  simple 
8 


170  THE    OLD    HOUSE     BY    THK     RIVER. 

name  "  Mr.  Lyon,"  was  in  the  little  sitting-room  when 
Mary  Grant  returned  from  her  grandfather's  room  with 
the  committee.  He  received  her  warm  thanks  with 
becoming  modesty,  but  with  all  the  air  of  a  man  of  ex 
treme  polish. 

A  single  glance  at  the  face  of  Mary  Grant  had  im 
pressed  him ;  and  with  a  ready  ear,  catching  the  conver 
sation  of  the  committee  at  the  same  time  that  he  was 
talking  to  Miss  Grant,  he  formed  a  plan  that  had  not 
entered  his  brain  till  that  moment,  but  which  involved 
the  decision  of  his  whole  future. 

A  few  words,  well  chosen,  sufficed  to  give  to  the  trus 
tees  a  hint  that  he  was  looking  after  literary  employment. 
They  caught  at  the  idea — asked  him  a  plain  question  in 
frank,  country  style,  and  received  what  they  thought  was 
as  frank  and  plain  an  answer.  A  week  afterward  he  fur 
nished  them  with  satisfactory  testimonials  of  character 
and  ability,  from  the  president  of  a  well-known  college, 
and  was  installed  on  the  throne  of  the  academy. 

All  these  things  passed  under  our  notice,  but  neither 
Willis  nor  myself  had  any  personal  interest  in  the  mat 
ter,  further  than  to  feel  anxious  after  the  health  of  our 
old  friend.  We  met  the  new  teacher,  and  endeavored 
to  make  his  acquaintance,  but  he  rather  avoided  us,  and 
pleaded  his  engagements  as  an  excuse  for  declining  an 
invitation  to  the  old  house. 

I  liked  him  nevertheless,  and  said  so  to  Mr.  Grant, 
whereat  I  saw  Mary's  eyes  sparkle,  and  I  guessed  the 
storv  instantlv. 


TROUT-FISHING.  171 

Three  months  passed  before  the  old  man  could  go  out 
of  the  house,  and  then  he  walked  feebly  down  to  the 
school-house,  where  he  was  greeted  with  a  shout  of  joy  by 
the  whole  school,  and  a  half-holiday  forthwith  demanded 
and  granted.  And  now  the  winter  was  approaching,  and 
the  old  man  proposed  to  Mr.  Lyon  to  take  the  entire 
charge  of  the  school,  and  allow  him  to  retire  from  it. 
To  this  the  new  teacher  assented,  and  agreed  to  return 
at  the  end  of  the  autumn  vacation. 

We  were  in  the  city  during  the  fall,  and  every  evening 

had  its  engagements.  At  dinner  with  0 ,  we  met  a 

large  company  of  friends ;  and  after  dinner,  found  his 
rooms  filled  with  a  brilliant  assembly.  Conspicuous 
among  them,  I  was  astonished  to  see  the  new  teacher, 
not  in  the  plain  clothes  and  demure  countenance  which 
he  wore  in  the  country,  but  evidently  at  home  in  the 

crowded  rooms,  and  the  friend  of  half  the  guests.  0 

presented  him.  I  recognised  him  coldly,  not  half  pleased 
with  the  trick  which  he  had  played  on  the  villagers,  and 
doubting  much  his  honesty.  But  he  was  too  frank  and 
hearty  in  his  expressions  of  regret  at  our  having  discov 
ered  his  secret,  for  us  to  resist  long  the  influence  of  his 
good  humor,  and  long  before  we  separated,  he  had  re 
moved  all  doubts  as  to  his  honor,  by  confessing  his  en 
gagement  to  Mary  Grant,  and  assuring  us  that  she  had 
always  known  the  whole  truth.  *  It  was  a  queer  fancy  of 
his  to  kill  three  months  in  a  stupid  village ;  but,  as  he 
said,  no  one  ever  had  such  an  opportunity  for  wooing  as 
he  found,  and  no  three  months  of  his  life  had  been  so 


172  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    RIVER. 

quiet  or  so  happy.  We  kept  his  secret  until  the  spring, 
and  it  was  only  when  the  wedding  preparations  began  to 
be  made  on  a  large  scale,  that  it  was  noised  abroad  that 
Mary  Grant  had  married  a  rich  man,  and  not  a  poor 
teacher. 

Certainly  no  one  envied  her,  or  would  have  had  it  oth 
erwise.  She  was  so  well  beloved  by  the  young,  and  her 
mother  had  been  so  well  beloved  by  their  mothers,  and 
her  grandfather  was  so  reverentially  regarded  by  the 
elders  and  the  children,  that  the  whole  village  rejoiced  in 
Mary  Grant's  prospects  of  happiness,  and  crowded  the 
church  to  see  her  given  away. 

There  were  no  tears  shed.  It  was  the  first  and  last 
wedding  I  have  seen  so  marked.  The  young  pastor 
made  the  ceremony  very  brief;  and  the  deep  silence 
which  reigned  in  the  church  was  unbroken,  except  by  her 
voice,  when  she  spoke  the  brief  sentence  that  ended  her 
maidenhood.  As  the  clergyman  pronounced  the  solemn 
declaration  of  union,  Lyon  folded  her  in  his  arms,  and 
pressed  his  lips  to  her  forehead,  in  the  presence  of  the 
congregation,  and  then  yielded  her  to  the  embrace  of  his 
queenly  sister,  who  welcomed  her  to  a  warm  heart. 

What  a  gay  evening  it  was  in  the  schoolmaster's  old 
house  !  There  was  plenty  of  room ;  for  Richard  Gray's 
house  was  large,  and  the  kitchen  was  immense.  The 
dancing  commenced  in  the  old  kitchen  at  eight  o'clock, 
and  was  kept  up  till  long  after  midnight.  Gay  airy  co 
tillons,  and  sober  contre-dances  followed  each  other  in 
rapid  and  constant  succession. 


TROUT-FISHING.  173 

The  good  clergyman  looked  in  on  them  for  a  moment 
reproachfully  •  but  even  he  had  not  the  heart  to  find  fault 
at  Mary  Grant's  wedding;  and  to  say  truth,  his  re 
proaching  look  was  only  assumed  for  the  occasion ;  and  I 
don't  think  that  he  objected,  in  his  heart,  to  the  graceful 
quadrille  that  served  so  well  the  purpose  of  the  young 
and  gay,  who,  for  the  time,  sought  only  amusement  and 
merriment. 

In  the  large  rooms  on  each  side  the  entrance  of  the 
house,  were  gathered  the  more  sedate  portion  of  the  com 
pany  ;  and  Mary  and  her  husband  stood  at  the  upper  end 
of  the  north  room  all  the  early  part  of  the  evening,  ex 
cept  only  when  they  opened  the  cotillons  with  Joe  Willis 
and  Lucy  vis-d-vis. 

The  old  man  was  everywhere.  Now  looking  proudly 
at  Mary  and  her  husband,  and  now  directing  the  dancers, 
and  now  superintending  the  loaded  tables  in  the  south 
rooms. 

To  him,  old  times  came  back  with  all  the  freshness  of 
youth.  He  had  not  thought  to  remember  those  days 
again  so  happily,  or  to  see  them  again  so  vividly  before 
him.  But  this  was  precisely  the  scene  which  he  had  en 
joyed  in  the  same  rooms  twice  before  :  once  when  he  had 
married  the  daughter  of  the  old  man  that  built  the  cot 
tage  sixty  years  ago,  and  again  when  a  stranger  had  won 
his  daughter  Mary,  and  he  had  given  her  to  him  for  bet 
ter  or  worse.  I  saw  the  old  man  pause  at  times  from 
his  busy  employment ;  and  from  the  vacant  look  of  his 
eyes,  I  knew  that  he  was  gazing  through  the  gloom  of 


174  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    RIVER. 

years  into  a  far  distant  time.  For,  when  men  look  thus, 
they  look  not  with  their  natural  eyes,  but  with  the  spirit's 
earnest  out-looking  gaze. 

Once  when  he  stood  thus  wrapt  in  a  vision  of  other 
days,  I  called  Lucy's  attention  to  him.  His  long  white 
hair  was  waving  over  his  shoulders ;  his  hand  rested  on 
the  end  of  the  mantel  over  the  hearth;  his  head  was 
thrown  somewhat  back,  aed  his  attitude  seemed  to  be 
one  of  intense  listening.  The  group  of  laughing  girls 
that  surrounded  him  were  unheard.  There  was  a  voice 
in  his  ear  full  of  ravishing  melody — a  voice  coming  out 
of  the  past,  and  reaching  the  old  man's  soul.  It  was  but 
an  instant  that  he  stood  thus,  and  then  he  relapsed  into 
his  ordinary  cheerful  mood,  and  resumed  the  care  of  his 
guests. 

We  left  at  an  early  hour,  and  drove  homeward  with 
our  party.  I  fancied — perhaps  it  was  all  fancy,  but  gay 
scenes  among  the  young  are  apt  to  affect  him  thus — I 
say  I  fancied  that  Joe  Willis  was  sad  and  silent  all 
the  way  homeward.  But  it  might  have  been  that  he 
was  engrossed  with  the  horses,  for  the  night  was  cool,  and 
the  bays  had  not  been  out  during  the  day,  and  Stephen 
was  not  altogether  trustworthy  as  a  coachman.  The 
next  day,  as  might  be  imagined,  we  were  somewhat  weary, 
and  our  friends,  except  Lucy  and  John,  left  us.  In  the 
evening  we  formed  a  quiet  party  in  the  library. 

"  Joseph,  my  dear  Joseph,"  said  Lucy,  "  I  wish  you 
would  be  a  little  more  careful.  You  have  thrown  over 
my  basket,  wound  my  ball  of  silk  around  your  boot,  and 


TROUT-FISHING.  1*15 

brushed  my  pattern  from  the  table.  Phil,  help  me, 
please.  I  am  positively  ashamed  of  Joseph's  rudeness, 
and  John  is  asleep,  of  course.  Do  help  me." 

"  Philip,"  said  Joe,  standing  meanwhile  motionless  in 
the  centre  of  the  library,  as  I  knelt  at  his  feet,  and  pro 
ceeded  to  disentangle  the  hopeless  mass  of  embroidery 
silk  in  which  he  had  enveloped  his  foot,  "  Philip,  I  was 
thinking " 

"  Well,  Joseph,  I  wish  you  would  think  to  more 
purpose.  Only  see  what  a  tangle  you  have  made  of  my 
silk." 

"  Philip,  I  was  thinking  that " 

"  Joe  lift  your  heel  a  little ;  this  silk  is  wound  under 
it." 

"  Philip,  I  was  thinking  that  this  night  is  the  anniver 
sary  of " 

"  Now  your  toe,  Joe.  Upon  my  word  I  never  saw 
such  a  snarl." 

"  Philip,  I  was  thinking " 

"  Lucy,  let  me  have  your  scissors,  if  you  please ;  its 
quite  out  of  the  question  to  get  it  off  in  any  other  way." 

"  No,  no ;  don't  cut  it ;  let  me  help  you.  Here,  Joe, 
just  hold  your  foot  up  on  this  chair." 

"  Confound  the  work,  Lucy.  What  are  you  spoiling 
your  eyes  for,  at  this  time  of  night,  with  your  embroider 
ing  ?  I'll  go  to  the  store  and  get  you  a  ton  of  silk,  and  a 
cocoonery  of  silk-worms  to-morrow,"  said  Joe,  stamping 
his  foot,  and  demolishing  the  silk  (for  all  practical  and 
connected  purposes),  whereat  Lucy  sank  back  in  her  chair 


176  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    RIVER. 

with  the  most  comical  little  sigh  of  terror,  and  John, 
starting  from  the  sofa,  and  rubbing  his  eyes,  exclaimed, 
"  Ah— eh — what's  that  ?  Phil,  Joe,  is  any  one  hurt  ?" 

"  No,  John — go  to  sleep  again,  old  fellow.  Philip,  I 
was  thinking " 

"  Joe — for  mercy's  sake  wait  a  little.  Don't  you  see 
what  a  commotion  you  have  literally  kicked  up  in  Lucy's 
work-basket,  and  how  you  have  spoiled  the  face  of  the  dog 
in  the  embroidery.  Think  more  calmly,  my  dear  boy, 
and  not  as  you  walk,  or  shoot,  or  ride — that's  no  way  to 
think." 

Thereupon  we  proceeded  to  place  things  in  order,  and 
having  at  length  satisfied  Lucy,  and  stowed  her  excellent 
husband  away  on  the  sofa  again,  and  drawn  our  large 
chairs  up  to  the  fire,  I  waited  for  Joe's  thought. 

"  Ten  years  ago  to-night  I  was  in  Paris,  and  made  an 
acquaintance  that  I  was  thinking  of  as  I  walked  up  and 
down  the  floor  and  into  Lucy's  basket.  And  a  good  fel 
low  he  was  too,  though  rather  ancient,  but  he  travelled 
with  me  for  two  months  after  that,  and  I  have  never  seen 
him  or  heard  of  him  since.  But  I  have  thought  of  him 
a  thousand  times.  I  would  like  to  know  what  has  be 
come  of  him.  We  met  oddly.  He  came  to  my  rooms, 
sent  his  card  up,  and  on  entering,  frankly  told  me  his 
errand.  He  was  an  invalid,  out  of  health,  travelling  alone. 
Tie  had  overdrawn  his  letters  of  credit,  and  wanted  funds, 
vvhile  waiting  for  new  letters.  He  said  he  was  rich — that 

he  knew  C ,  and  S ,  and  H ,  and  a 

dozen  other  good  names,  and  I  was  so  taken  with  him 


TROUT-FISHING. 


177 


that  I  lent  him  a  thousand  dollars  the  next  day.  He 
paid  me  the  following  week,  travelled  with  me  two 
months,  told  me  a  hundred  quaint  stories,  lost  me  among 
the  Alps,  and  for  aught  I  know,  lost  himself  there  too. 
He  gave  me  a  story  for  a  memento,  which  he  related  in 
the  carriage  as  we  posted  across  the  south  of  France,  and 
afterward  wrote  out,  when  I  begged  him  to  do  so.  Poor 
fellow,  I  fancy  he  did  not  live  long.  I'll  read  you  the 
story  to-night,  and  Philip  you  shall  print  it,  if  you  will. 
Do  me  the  favor  to  ring — you  are  nearest  the  bell." 

Enter  Anthony.  He  should  have  been  described  be 
fore.  He  was  the  favorite  family  servant  of  Judge  Wil 
lis,  but  was  always  attached  especially  to  Joe.  He  was 
taken  from  a  hovel  by  Mr.  Willis,  the  father  of  my  friend, 
when  a  boy  of  ten  years,  and  his  instructions  were  never 
to  lose  sight  of  his  young  master,  then  not  more  than 
three  or  four.  He  was  to  devote  himself  to  that  boy, 
and  as  a  reward  he  was  never  to  want  for  anything.  The 
duty  and  the  reward  have  been  strictly  regarded  and  ful 
filled.  Anthony  was  educated  well,  and  I  believe  Joe 
was  never  out  of  his  sight  from  that  time  till  he  went  to 
college,  and  when  he  became  a  Senior  was  again  joined 
by  him.  When  Mr.  Willis  died  he  accompanied  Joe  to 
the  judge's,  but  always  remained  the  attendant  of  his 
young  master,  and  was  with  him  in  all  his  travels.  He 
is  now  major  domo,  steward  of  the  farm,  agent  between 
Willis  and  the  tenants,  and  confidential  servant,  all  com. 
bined.  He  is  black  as  ebony,  straight  as  an  arrow,  tall, 
well  formed,  with  unusually  straight  features,  writes  a 
8* 


1*78  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    RIVER. 

good  hand,  reads  considerably,  and  is  in  all  respects  a 
remarkable  specimen  for  his  color.  He  has  always  found 
his  master's  purse  open  to  his  drafts,  and  I  believe  has 
not  a  wish  within  the  control  of  money,  which  remains 
ungratified.  After  the  removal  of  the  dinner  he  is  the 
only  servant  admitted,  and  always  answers  the  bell,  un 
less  it  is  otherwise  indicated  by  the  use  of  a  small  table- 
bell,  whose  sharp  ring  through  the  whole  house  summons 
the  housekeeper,  or  one  of  her  aids.  To  return,  there 
fore,  to  Anthony,  whom  we  left  standing. 

"  I  wish  a  package  of  papers  from  the  large  drawer 
of  the  book-case,  yonder.  You  ought  to  remember  where 
they  are,  for  you  put  them  up.  The  package  was  marked 
'  Marseilles,  18 — ,  December.'  Find  them,  Anthony." 

In  five  minutes  the  package  was  in  Willis's  hand  and 
he  selected  the  paper  he  desired,  arranged  his  chair,  lit 
his  cigar  with  Lucy's  approbation,  and  read  aloud. 


MARY     LE  E. 

"  SWEET  Mary  Lee !  The  music  of  your  laughter  rings 
from  out  the  lonesome  years  as  the  carol  of  a  bird  pour 
ing  a  melodious  note  through  a  ruined  temple.  I  call 
them  lonesome  years,  for  they  have  been  suchi,  and  since 
the  bright  spring  morning  when  I  last  saw  my  gentle 
sister  in  the  fleshly  covering  that  so  adorned  her,  since 
that  day  when  I  forgot  to  weep,  for  dear  thoughts  of 
all  her  goodness  and  gentleness,  I  have  been  lonely,  very 


MARY    LEE. 


179 


lonely,  and  am  dying  now,  alone !  My  life  has  been  a 
useless  and  a  vain  life,  and  the  years  are  like  a  ruin. 
Every  moss-grown  stone  is  an  old  ambition,  every  but 
tress  a  vain  struggle ;  every  window  a  hope  through 
which  I  peered  longingly  out  at  the  far  blue  sky ! 

"  Sweet  Mary  Lee  !  The  blue  is  very  far  away  to-day, 
arid  very  deep,  and  serener,  purer,  holier,  than  ever  before. 
And  I  have  fancied  as  I  have  been  gazing  into  it,  that 
mayhap  I  can  long,  and  long,  and  long  so  earnestly,  that 
I  may  burst  the  bonds  at  length,  and  soar  away  into  the 
glory  that  I  used  to  fancy  lay  beyond  the  azure,  and  to 
the  embrace  which  I  know  awaits  me  there  !  I  have  fan 
cied  too,  this  afternoon,  that  this  Italian  atmosphere 
seemed  either  more  penetrable  by  mortal  powers,  or  else 
that  I  am  in  a  more  spiritual  humor  than  usual,  for  I 
feel  as  if  I  could  float  away  on  it  without  much  difficulty. 

It  might  not  be  well  to  try,  and  yet ah,  that  must 

after  all  be  the  reason — the  air  is  full  of  angels,  and  they 
crowd  around,  and  are  trying  to  persuade  me  away,  and 
I  am  so  anxious  to  be  gone  that  I  can't  sit  longer  in  my 
ohair.  Now  they  separate,  and  now  a  star -beam  falls 
from  out  the  twilight  sky,  and — no — it  is  not  a  star 
either — it's  a  form  of  beauty ;  am  I  dreaming  ?  It  is 
Mary — Mary  Lee ;  only  she  is  more  beautiful  than  my 
memory  of  her ;  and  yet  it  is  she,  and  that  must  be  the 
beauty  I  have  somewhere  read  of  as  given  to  the  blessed 
dead.  She  is  coming  down,  down  the  long  line  of  angels, 
fairer,  much  fairer  than  any  of  them  all — and  she  is  com 
ing  here,  and  her  dear  arms  are  once  again  around  me, 


180  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    RIVER. 

and  her  lips  are  on  mine,  and  she  kisses  me,  and  looks 
into  my  eyes  with  those  most  heavenly  eyes  of  hers,  and, 
Mary,  are  you  on  earth  ?  or  is  this  heaven  ? 

"  Ah,  me  !  She  is  gone,  and  only  a  mournful  gleam  of 
star-light  falls  on  my  watching  eyes  from  the  heaven  she 
has  gone  to.  I  must  have  been  dreaming.  What  was  I 
to  have  written  ?  It  is  an  hour  since  I  took  this  seat  by 
my  table.  I  remember — a  story  I  was  about  to  tell; 
well,  I  will  once  more  tell  the  story  of  Mary  Lee. 

"  I  am  old,  but  not  so  old  that  my  heart-strings  have 
forgotten  to  thrill  at  the  touch  of  memory.  Nay,  my 
very  memory  is  like  a  wind-breath,  and  as  it  weeps  over 
those  strings,  the  sounds  are  to  me  as  sounds  of  indescri 
bable  melody,  but  of  untold  mournfulness.  The  Eolian 
of  the  heart  is  a  harp  of  fine,  of  delicate*,  of  very  sensitive 
strings,  and  its  music  is  in  my  heart  as  the  songs  of  spirits 
over  lost  loves. 

"  Mary  Lee  was  the  most  beautiful  child  I  remember 
to  have  seen.  She  was  not  large,  neither  was  she  small. 
Her  form  was  one  of  extraordinary  perfectness,  and  at 
seventeen  I  think  her  beauty  of  feature  and  of  body 
without  a  rival.  Her  eye  was  of  a  dark  blue,  almost 
black ;  the  lashes  long  and  jetty.  Her  hair  very  dark) 
and  parted  plainly  on  a  finer  forehead  than  Canova  ever 
sculptured ;  her  lips  chiselled  with  perfect  regularity, 
and  yet  if  there  were  any  fault  in  her  face,  it  was  in  a  lit 
tle  too  much  fulness  of  those  same  lips.  They  were  not 
precisely  in  harmony  with  the  rest  of  her  face — but  you 
would  only  notice  this  on  close  examination,  and  perhaps 


MARY    LEE.  181 

not  then.  I  had  a  fancy  of  watching  her  lips,  as  well  for 
the  words  of  love  they  so  gracefully  formed,  as  for  the 
kisses  I,  and  I  alone,  (in  those  years,)  had  from  them — 
for  Mary  Lee  was  the  adopted  daughter  of  my  father,  and 
so  my  sister.  She  was  the  child  of  my  father's  old  friend. 
They  had  been  boys  and  young  men,  and  grew  to  be  old 
men  together.  When  Mr.  Lee  died,  he  left  Mary,  then 
but  ten  years  old,  to  my  mother's  gentle  care. 

"  It  was  my  father's  wish,  I  have  always  supposed,  that 
we  should  marry  each  other,  but  somehow  it  happened 
that  our  love  was  never  based  on  any  such  hopes.  It  was 
the  perfect  confidence  of  children,  growing  with  our  age, 
that  bound  us  together. 

"  I  may  not  pause  to  tell  the  history  of  our  childhood. 
Enough  that  it  was  as  childhood  in  the  beautiful  country 
must  always  be,  exceedingly  beautiful.  The  earth  was  one 
wide  source  of  joy  to  us,  and  every  flower  that  bloomed 
brought  a  bloom  of  joy  to  the  glad  eyes  of  my  sweet  sis 
ter.  The  mountain  streams  taught  her  their  melody; 
and  she  would  sit  in  the  glen  by  the  fall,  and  sing  wild 
songs,  or  trill  melodies  which  sprang  from  her  heart ;  and 
the  dash  of  the  water,  the  sound  of  the  wind  in  the  trees, 
and  her  voice,  together,  made  up  an  anthem  of  marvel 
lous  richness,  that  the  birds  were  not  ashamed  to  sit  and 
listen  to.  Sometimes  we  wandered  away  up  the  moun 
tain-side  on  foot,  and  she  would  find  a  rocky  peak,  and 
sitting  in  the  sunshine,  twine  an  oak-leaf  crown,  and  with 
that  on  her  brow,  call  herself  a  queen,  and  all  the  earth 
her  dominion.  And  I,  who  was  the  sole  representative 


182  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    RIVER. 

of  all  the  earth,  would  bow  meekly  at  her  feet,  and  she 
be  very  gracious,  and  so  would  bid  me  ask  what  boon  I 
would,  even  to  half  her  throne ;  and  I,  presuming  sub 
ject,  would  beg  exactly  that  much;  and  she,  most  gra 
ciously  and  gracefully,  would  move  a  little  to  the  side, 
and  I  would  take  the  seat,  and  so  my  arm  would  boldly 
pass  around  her,  and  her  head  would  fall  on  my  shoul 
der,  and — who  in  all  the  world,  monarch  or  subject, 
could  be  so  happy  as  we,  forgetting,  as  we  did,  that 
there  was,  in  all  the  world,  any  boy  other  than  myself,  or 
any  maiden  other  than  my  sister,  Mary  Lee.  And  yet  I 
did  not  love  her  as  boys  love  maidens  whose  names  are 
not  their  own.  She  was  my  sister  in  every  respect.  Be 
this  understood.  She  is  gone  now — passed  like  a  star 
into  the  sky  when  the  morning  dawns.  And  many  long 
years  have  been  buried  up  in  the  rubbish  of  an  aimless 
life  since  I  last  held  her  in  my  arms,  and  I  am  an  old 
man,  and  weary.  My  life  has  been  wasted  and  blasted 
by  seeking  after  other  phantoms ;  but  now,  with  the  cool 
blood  of  sixty  odd  years,  freezing  in  a  chilly  atmosphere, 
(I  have  lived  a  cold  life  since  then,  Mary  dear,)  I  say 
calmly,  that  I  loved  her  but  as  a  sister — no  more. 

"  Her  childhood  passed  into  youth  and  the  full  bloom 
of  maiden  loveliness. 

"  One  Christmas  morning  we  were  in  gay  spirits  at  the 
homestead,  and  a  sleigh-ride  was  proposed  and  planned. 
That  afternoon  we  were  away  over  the  hills  and  through 
the  valleys,  and  at  evening  came  home  by  the  merry 
moonlight 


MARY    LEE.  183 

"Pardon  an  old  man's  memories  which  will  intrude 
themselves  in  the  shape  of  particulars  that  may  be  unim 
portant  to  others,  but  to  him  are  full  of  deep  interest. 

"  There  was  a  party  at  the  homestead  in  the  evening. 
I  had  reached  my  majority  a  few  days  previously,  and 
Mary  was  nineteen.  Mary  and  I  returned  late  from  our 
ride,  but  early  enough  for  the  gathering.  The  broad 
hall  was  brilliantly  lighted,  and  all  the  rooms  were 
open  and  filled  with  the  young,  glad-eyed,  and  happy  of 
the  country  side.  We  had  a  joyous  time.  The  dance 
was  kept  up  in  the  old  dining-room,  and  every  game  of 
merriment  in  the  other  parts  of  the  house,  while  Mary 
moved  like  a  spirit  of  light  and  life  through  the  crowds 
of  revellers,  and  lent  new  joy  to  joy,  new  merriment  to 
laughter. 

"  There  was  a  graver  assemblage  in  the  drawing-room 
in  the  north  wing  of  the  house.  There  the  elder  persons 
were  gathered,  discussing  old  histories  and  family  remi 
niscences.  In  the  kitchen,  around  a  blazing  hearth,  the 
servants  of  all  the  families  in  the  country  around  were 
assembled ;  and  an  occasional  hearty  laugh  indicated  that 
the  maids  were  not  behind  their  mistresses,  and  were 
attracting  the  full  attentions  of  their  masters'  men.  And 
once,  as  the  door  opened  from  the  broad  hall,  I  saw 
Mary  in  there,  as  everywhere  else,  shedding  joy  and  glad 
ness. 

"  At  a  late  hour,  when  the  merriment  was  at  its  height, 
a  stranger  was  announced.  A  gentleman,  booted  and 
spurred,  entered  with  letters  from  the  city  for  my  father. 


184  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    RIVER. 

His  business  was  important,  and  my  father  presented 
him  to  me  for  my  attention,  while  he  retired  to  examine 
the  letters. 

"  Capt.  Mclvor  was  a  young  man,  not  far  from  my  own 
age,  but  more  slightly  formed,  with  a  remarkably  fine 
face.  His  forehead  was  expressive  of  careful  thought, 
and  his  lips  indicated  a  life  of  habitual  danger  and  firm 
ness.  As  I  afterwards  knew,  he  was  an  officer  in  the 
British  army,  who,  young  as  he  was,  had  seen  much  ser 
vice  of  hazard.  But  I  did  not  like  his  face.  There  was 
about  his  lip  a  something  which  I  did  not  fancy.  But  I 
took  him  to  a  dressing-room,  insisted  on  his  wearing  cer 
tain  of  my  own  clothes,  which  in  the  loose  fashions  of  the 
period,  fitted  almost  any  one,  and  returning  with  him  to 
the  rooms,  presented  him  to  Mary.  In  the  next  hour  he 
danced  a  contre-dance  with  her;  and  I  was  somewhat 
sorry  to  see  how  earnest  attention  she  gave  to  him. 

"  Again  I  linger  on  too  small  matters. 

"  Mary  loved  him.  I  strove  against  it  as  a  brother 
would  strive  for  a  sister's  happiness.  But  she  was  a 
woman ;  and  once  loving,  she  was  woman-like.  I  did  not 
like  his  principles — nor  his  practice,  for  that  matter. 
But  Mary  loved  him,  and  her  love  covered  his  many  sins. 
I  learned  to  like  him  for  her  sake ;  and  during  the  four 
weeks  he  was  persuaded  to  remain  with  us,  we  made  the 
country  gay  with  rides  and  parties  of  all  sorts,  and  I  ac 
companied  him  to  the  city  to  attend  to  the  completion  of 
my  father's  business  on  which  he  had  come. 

"  This  business  was  the  settlement  of  an  estate  in  Eng- 


MARY    LEE.  185 

land,  which  had  fallen  to  my  mother  by  the  death  of  an 
old  uncle,  and  Captain  Mclvor  having  been  sent  over 
with  despatches,  had  been  made  the  bearer  of  these  let 
ters.  It  soon  appeared  necessary  for  some  one  of  us  to 
cross  the  ocean.  In  my  minority  I  had  travelled  much, 
twice  crossing  the  Atlantic,  and  it  was  decided  that  I 
should  make  the  third  trip  in  the  spring.  But  not  alone. 
Mclvor  and  Mary  accompanied  me. 

"  It  was  lonely  in  the  homestead  when  its  light  was 
gone.  Old  Robert,  my  father's  servant,  often  afterwards 
told  me  of  the  long  hours  in  which  the  good  old  man 
would  pace  up  and  down  the  hall,  while  my  mother 
sat  silently  by  the  grate  and  worked ;  and  how  he  would 
come  in  and  stir  the  fire,  and  speak,  if  only  to  break  the 
silence  which  he  thought  was  breaking  the  hearts  of  his 
master  and  mistress.  And  then  my  mother  would  look 
up  with  mournful  earnestness  in  my  father's  face,  and 
burst  into  tears,  and  my  father  would  soothe  her  with 
loving  words,  and  talk  to  her  of  the  old  days  of  their 
love,  and  tell  her  they  were  not  forgotten.  Noble  hearts 
that  had  kept  close  together  all  through  life,  pressed  each 
to  the  other.  Men  said  my  father  was  cold,  and  that  he 
was  stern  and  haughty.  Perhaps  he  was  so  on  the  world's 
side,  but  where  his  proud  heart  touched  her  heart,  and 
Mary's,  and  mine,  it  was  warm ;  how  warm  !  It  has 
grown  cold  with  death  since  then  ! 

"  I  crossed  the  sea  with  Mary.  Her  husband  was  kind 
and  gentle,  and  I  had  almost  forgotten  my  early  sus 
picions  when  the  ship  reached  England.  He  carried  her 


186  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    RIVER. 

to  a  princely  home,  where  I  left  her  while  I  arranged 
my  business.  This  occupied  the  two  months  next  fol 
lowing  ;  and  when  I  next  saw  her  I  fancied  an  expression 
of  care  was  on  her  face.  The  moment  we  were  alone 
she  gave  me  her  usual  frank  statement  of  all  her  troubles. 
She  feared  that  Mclvor  was  a  man  of  bad  habits,  and 
she  had  reason  to  believe  he  had  had  a  disagreement 
with  his  father. 

"  The  truth  ere  long  came  out.  He  had  long  been  a 
gambler,  and  vices  of  deeper  die  stained  his  fair  name. 
His  father,  a  gentleman  of  unbending  determination,  re 
fused  him  supplies  of  money,  and  obtained  at  length  an 
order  sending  him  on  foreign  service.  In  vain  did 
Mary  beg  on  her  knees  of  his  father  a  remission  of  his 
sentence.  He  was  firm,  and  yet  lifted  her  in  his  arms, 
assuring  her  that  it  was  all  out  of  love  for  her,  and  for  his 
son,  that  he  had  thus  decided.  His  own  plans,  however, 
were  overturned  by  an  unexpected  change  in  the  desti 
nation  of  his  son,  who  was  ordered  to  America. 

"  Mary's  position  was  now  not  a  little  embarrassing. 
War  was  declared,  and  her  husband  was  an  officer  in  the 
army  which  was  invading  her  country.  Mclvor's  treat 
ment  of  her  had  grown  cold  and  unkind,  and  she  was 
miserable.  She  had  never  known  unhappiness  before, 
and  her  mind  again  and  again  went  back  with  involun 
tary  bitterness  to  the  Christmas  night  a  few  months 
before. 

"  I  must  hurry  on  with  my  history.  Her  husband  sailed 
to  Canada,  while  she  accompanied  me  to  New  York.  It 


MARY    LEE. 


187 


matters  nothing  now  how  we  managed  our  departure 
from  England.  Enough  that  the  old  homestead  was 
glad  again  when  we  came  home,  and  that  fond  arms 
encircled  us. 

"  The  war  continued,  and  Mary  heard  frequently  of  her 
husband,  whom  she  loved  with  a  devotion  I  have  never 
known  surpassed.  It  now  became  manifest  that  a  fatal 
disease  had  seized  on  her ;  and  at  last,  worn  out  with 
the  progress  of  her  malady,  as  well  as  with  her  anxiety, 
she  insisted  on  going  to  him.  She  would  hear  of  no  re 
fusal,  and  the  physician  at  length  confessed  his  belief 
that  it  would  not  harm  her.  So  I  accompanied  her  to 
Canada,  where  Mclvor  then  was. 

"  They  met  with  tears  of  joy  on  her  part,  and  impatient 
anger  on  his.  There  were  reasons  why  the  presence  of  a 
wife  was  to  him  eminently  unpleasant  just  then. 

"  With  an  idolatry  of  love,  of  which  none  but  she  was 
ever  capable,  she  yielded  to  his  wishes  and  left  him. 
But  at  the  very  instant  of  entering  our  carriage  we  heard 
that  he  was  ordered  out  on  service,  and  she  begged  me 
to  stay  till  we  heard  the  result  of  that  expedition. 

"  I  never  knew  its  object.  He,  with  a  small  party, 
entered  the  forest.  Day  after  day  passed,  and  Mary's 
suspense  grew  intolerable.  She  resolved  to  follow  him ; 
and,  unknown  to  me,  provided  herself  with  the  necessary 
conveniences,  hired  a  party  of  men,  and  then  asked  me 
to  accompany  her.  I  could  neither  prevent  her  going, 
nor  refuse  my  services. 

"  Mclvor,  with  his  company,  were  on  their  return  from 


188  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    RIVER. 

the  service  which  had  been  completed  when  they  were 
attacked  by  an  overwhelming  force  of  savages. 

"  They  were  but  four  to  twenty;  and,  with  their  backs 
against  a  rock,  fought  bravely  with  these  fearful  odds. 
Strangely,  the  savages  had  either  no  rifles,  or  no  ammuni 
tion,  and  it  was  a  hand-to-hand  battle,  after  the  English 
had  fired  their  pistols. 

"  Stout  blows  were  those  their  heavy-hilted  horseman's 
swords  showered  on  the  swarthy  limbs  of  the  Red  men, 
and  they  went  down  by  fours  till  only  eight  remained. 
But  British  blood  ebbed  drop  by  drop  from  channels 
that  gave  life  to  those  stout  arms.  Anon  one  of  the 
brave  men  fell,  struck  by  a  hatchet  thrown  from  outside 
the  ring  o*f  the  savages,  but  supporting  himself  on  one 
arm,  as  he  lay  unheeded  on  the  ground,  loaded  his  pis 
tols,  and  with  unerring  aim  shot  down  two  more  of  the 
cowardly  foe.  Astonished  and  dismayed,  the  surviving 
six  fled,  and  the  English  remained  on  the  field  victors.  But 
at  a  fearful  cost,  for  Mclvor's  strength  was  failing  him  fast. 

"  The  others  assisted  his  feeble  steps  to  the  brow  of  a 
hill,  and  left  him  there  while  they  hastened  to  seek  aid. 
A  fair  and  placid  river  flowed  along  the  base  of  the  hill, 
and  murmured  pleasantly  to  the  forest  on  its  banks.  A 
summer  twilight  came  on,  and  with  it  came  a  storm  of 
terrific  violence.  The  dying  soldier  heard  the  roar,  of 
the  thunder,  and  it  entered  strangely  into  his  delirious 
dreams.  He  murmured  as  if  the  battle  were  around  him 
yet,  and  sometimes  mingled  names  of  endearment  with 
the  faint  shouts  of  the  fray. 


MARY    LEE.  189 

"  We  who  were  seeking  him  came  into  the  valley  and 
encamped  during  the  storm,  and  at  length  resolved  to 
pass  the  night  there.  Making  ourselves  as  comfortable 
as  we  could,  we  placed  our  guard,  and  I  slept.  Not  so 
Mary  ;  she  lay  awake,  and  her  quick  ear  caught,  at  a  dis 
tance,  the  sound  of  voices,  before  M'lvor's  surviving 
friends  had  reached  our  camp.  She  sprang  up,  heard  the 
first  words  of  their  story,  caught  the  direction  in  which 
he  lay,  and  flew  from  us  like  a  spirit,  out  into  the  forest. 
We  followed  with  what  speed  we  might,  vainly  calling  on 
her  to  wait  for  us. 

"  He  was  dying  in  the  midst  of  the  tempest.  His  life 
had  been  a  long  storm  of  passion,  as  I  afterward  knew, 
and  his  death  was  worthy  of  his  life.  A  thousand  scenes 
passed  in  confusion  before  his  wandering  vision.  Eng 
land,  Spain,  Portugal,  Ireland,  all  alike  furnished  mate 
rial  to  make  up  the  strange  company  of  ghostly  visitants 
that  watched  his  rocky  pillow,  as  he  lay  dying  in  the 
forest.  The  thunder  and  the  wind  made  strange  sounds 
in  his  ears,  and  he  spoke  feebly,  as  if  the  life-blood  were 
almost  exhausted,  and  his  broken  words  yet  indicated 
those  sudden  changes  of  delirious  imagination  from 
woman's  arms  to  battle-fields.  His  arm  lay  across  his 
breast ;  but  he  lifted  it  in  the  air,  and  then  laid  it  across 
his  forehead,  now  bared  to  the  wind  and  rain.  Then  there 
was  no  motion  of  his  body  except  a  faint  clutching  of  his 
fingers,  and  a  tremulous  movement  of  his  lips,  which 
gave  utterance  to  broken  murmurs. 

"  The  storm  passed  on,  and  in  his  dreams  the  roar  of 


190  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BT    THE    RIVER. 

battle  died  far  away,  and  he  fancied  triumphantly  too,  for 
he  smiled,  and  then  he  thought  he  was  at  home,  innierrie 
England,  and  listening  to  the  sweetest  music  in  the 
world,  and  he  said  "  Mary  ! "  in  a  low,  broken  tone,  and 
then  a  shudder  in  his  frame  rattled  his  sword  in  the 
scabbard,  and  he  was  dead. 

"  The  waiting  stars  broke  with  their  glorious  beauty 
through  the  clouds,  and  their  radiant  beams  fell  on  the 
ripples  of  the  river  like  the  laughter  of  angels.  And  the 
angels  were  glad.  For  on  the  summit  of  the  hill  that 
overlooked  the  forest  and  the  river,  with  arms  wound  in 
the  attitude  of  passionate  devotion  around  the  neck  of  the 
fallen  soldier,  lay  a  child  of  earth  that  might  have  won 
the  love  of  one  of  the  sons  of  Grod,  so  ravishingly  beauti 
ful  was  she.  But  the  long  lashes  drooped  on  the  cheeks, 
and  the  closed  lids  shut  in  the  starry  eyes,  and  no  breath 
came  through  the  just-parted  lips,  and  she  was  dead,  and 
the  angels  were  glad,  for  she  had  come  back  to  them  who 
had  been  so  long  a  wanderer  from  her  native  heaven. 

"  They  slept  well !  There  was  none  of  the  formality  of 
death  there !  There  was  no  folding  of  the  hands,  or 
crossing  of  the  arms,  or  straightening  of  the  limbs,  for 
the  deep  and  chilling  sleep.  There  was  no  bidding  fare 
well  in  hackneyed  phrases,  made  up  of  words  of  this 
earth's  coldness,  which  at  the  best  are  frigid.  There 
was  no  sigh,  no  kiss,  no  convulsive  grasping  of  the 
fingers.  But  when  she  reached  the  brow  of  the  hill, 
and  saw  him,  and  saw  that  he  was  dead,  she  meekly 
wound  her  arms  around  him,  and  laying  her  cheek  by 


MART    LEE.  191 

his,  smiled,  and  murmured  to  herself,  "  Thank  God,  it  is 
all  over,  and  I  may  go,"  and  went.  The  clay  smiled  yet, 
though  she  was  gone,  and  around  her  lips  yet  lingered 
the  kisses  of  the  angels. 

"  Whether  he  and  she  met  again,  I  know  not ;  I  think 
not.  He  was  a  fiend,  if  ever  man  was  one,  and  she  an 
angel ;  and  I  never  heard  that  there  was  any  island  in 
that  great  gulf  we  read  of,  on  which  those  two  might 
meet :  although,  indeed,  it  seems  from  the  Scripture 
story,  that  they  may  speak  from  shore  to  shore,  and  I 
have  fancied  that  he  might  stand  at  times  on  that  shore, 
and  call,  in  piteous  accents  of  anguish,  to  her,  on  this. 
But  the  songs  of  the  angels  prevent  her  hearing. 

"  In  the  winter  nights  I  imagine  the  wind's  sounds  bring 
similar  wails  to  our  ears,  and  that  I  often  hear  the  agon 
ized  sobbing  of  the  damned,  when  the  blessed  do  not  re 
ply  to  their  calls." 


XII. 


|or*st  f ilt 


WE  had  been  in  our  cabin,  perhaps,  four  weeks  of  an 
autumn  not  long  ago,  when  an  early  snow-storm 
left  a  thin  covering  of  white  over  everything.  Coming 
out  of  the  cabin  door  in  the  morning,  I  observed  a  track 
on  the  snow,  which  I  would  have  preferred  to  see  else 
where,  for  I  disliked  extremely  the  proximity  of  wolves. 
There  was  no  mistake  about  this.  He  was  a  large  one, 
too,  if  the  footprint  could  be  believed  a  fair  indication ; 
and  Black  declared  that  he  was  one  whom  he  knew  well 
of  old,  by  the  peculiar  pressure  of  one  of  his  fore-feet. 
Black  had  sent  a  bullet  after  him  once,  with  no  effect 
except  to  draw  blood ;  but  he  had  always  observed  this 
peculiarity  in  his  footprint  after  that.  He  had  been 
missing  now  for  two  years,  and  his  visit  was  unexpected 
and  not  welcome. 

"We  started  out  after  breakfast  to  look  for  him.  The 
track  was  rapid,  as  if  he  had  been  on  the  run,  pausing  a 
moment  at  the  door  of  our  cabin,  and  then  flying  on 
again.  I  followed  him  steadily  into  the  forest,  until  I 
found  a  place  where  he  had  doubled  on  his  track,  and, 


196  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    RIVER. 

coming  back  a  hundred  yards,  he  had  taken  to  a  hollow 
in  which  we  had  killed  a  buck  a  week  previous,  and  left 
his  fore-quarters.  Here  the  wolf  had  eaten  his  fill,  and 
taking  the  ravine  down  to  the  river,  had  gone  up  two 
miles,  and  there  crossed  a  shoal  to  the  island.  Whether 
he  was  still  on  the  island  was  problematical;  but  after 
watching  on  shore,  while  the  dogs  scoured  it,  we  con 
cluded  he  was  not  there,  but  had  crossed  a  narrow  and 
deep  channel  to  the  opposite  shore. 

This  had  occupied  the  whole  day,  and  it  was  evening 
when  we  turned  homeward.  The  moon  was  near  the 
full,  and  everything  gleamed  in  the  light,  as  if  a  fairy 
hand  had  illumined  it  with  special  lustre.  Joe  was  in 
remarkably  fine  spirits.  It  was  not  uncommon  for  him 
to  be  somewhat  sad  on  such  a  night  as  this.  For  in  such 
moony  nights,  the  old  familiar  faces  haunt  us,  and  the 
old  familiar  voices  fill  the  air  around  us,  and  the  hearts 
which  have  ceased  to  beat  long  ago,  seem  to  be  beating 
close  against  ours.  A  marvellous  power  has  a  moonlight 
night  in  the  early  winter ; — a  power  to  call  up  the  past, 
and  rebuild  fallen  temples,  rekindle  altar -fires  that  have 
gone  out,  and  gather  again  worshippers  and  deities  that 
have  been  long  with  their  kindred  dust,  mouldering 
away. 

But  now  the  past  was  dead,  and  nothing  disturbed  its 
grave.  So  he  was  singing  a  brave  old  song,  and  I  was 
trying  once  in  a  while  to  get  up  a  chorus.  On  the  side 
of  the  river  the  rocks  were  black,  and  the  sun  had  quite 
melted  the  snow  from  them.  There  was  one  spot  where 


FOREST    LIFE. 


197 


a  tall  tree  overhung  the  stream ;  but  its  branches  cast 
their  shadow  on  the  water,  and  not  on  the  shore.  We 
passed  close  to  it,  and  as  John  approached  it,  he  paused 
and  snarled  angrily.  The  sound  was  sufficiently  startling. 
It  always  meant  something  when  he  thus  gave  indications 
of  anger.  He  was  a  dog  who  distinguished  between  dif 
ferent  animals  with  marvellous  keenness,  and  never 
snarled  at  any  but  cross  and  dangerous  game.  "  That 
wolf  is  somewhere  about,"  said  Joe.  I  stooped  down  to 
John  to  get  the  direction  of  his  eye.  It  was  fixed  on  the 
river.  At  about  a  hundred  yards  from  us  was  a  small, 
rocky  island,  containing  not  more  than  sixty  square  feet 
of  surface  above  the  water.  There  was  no  snow  left  on 
it,  but  the  rocks  were  of  a  lighter  color  than  those  on 
shore,  and  I  saw  that  John  was  looking  toward  them. 

Slowly  approaching  the  trunk  of  the  tree  which  stood 
near  the  water,  I  knelt  behind  it,  while  Joe  and  John 
walked  on  down.  As  I  had  hoped,  I  began  to  see  a 
motion  on  the  island  as  soon  as  Joe  had  left  me.  The 
ruse  was  good ;  and  whatever  it  was  that  lay  there  was 
manifestly  convinced  that  we  had  gone  out  of  sight.  Joe 
had  taken  a  position  a  little  below,  and  where  he  could 
command  the  other  side  of  the  island,  which  had  a  ridge 
running  diagonally  across  the  river. 

After  a  little  I  saw  the  movement  of  a  head,  and  at 
length  a  brown  body  rose  from  the  surface  of  the  rock, 
and  now  the  wolf  was  visible.  I  saw  in  a  moment  that 
he  had  been  carried  down  in  trying  to  get  ashore  from 
the  island,  and  here  had  made  land.  He  walked  restlessly 


198  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    RIVER. 

up  and  down  the  rock,  trying  the  water  with  his  feet 
and  nose  occasionally,  and  at  length  stopped  short,  and 
lifted  his  head  as  if  to  howl,  but  without  emitting  any 
sound.  At  that  moment  I  shot.  My  ball  hit  him,  as 
was  evident  from  the  leap  he  made ;  but  he  stood  per 
fectly  still  for  ten  or  twenty  seconds  afterwards.  Then 
he  suddenly  broke  out  with  a  wail  of  fury  and  of  agony 
that  surpassed  all  description.  You  could  have  heard  it 
miles  away.  As  it  was,  we  heard  the  cry  ringing  through 
the  mountain  gorges,  echoing  from  the  rocky  hill  sides, 
and  quivering  in  the  forests  as  if  the  fiends  were  haunt 
ing  the  wild-wood  with  discordant  yells  over  some  fiend 
ish  suffering.  The  sound  died  away ;  and  scarcely  had 
it  ceased,  when  he  broke  out  again  with  a  cry  tenfold  as 
fierce  and  thrilling.  It  rings  in  my  ears  yet.  The  river 
ceased  to  dash  over  the  rapids,  the  wind  ceased  its  song 
in  the  pine  trees,  the  very  moonlight  seemed  to  tremble 
in  that  unearthly  scream.  And  now  John  spoke,  not 
with  a  bay,  but  with  the  wail  with  which  a  dog  always 
accompanies  a  loud  sound  of  pain.  He  seemed  to  try  to 
howl,  but  he  could  not,  and  his  voice  stretched  out  on 
the  key-note  which  the  wolf  gave,  only  it  was  broken  up 
by  wild,  sharp  barks  and  angry  snarls,  as  if  he  were 
howling  against  his  will.  Then  came  in  a  new  sound. 
I  could  not  make  it  out  at  first,  but  at  length  I  found 
that  it  was  Joe,  who,  to  add  to  the  din,  was  trying  to 
catch  the  note,  but  with  poor  success.  Tired  of  the 
noise,  I  shot  my  second  ball.  In  an  instant,  as  by 
magic,  a  profound  stillness  took  possession  of  everything. 


FOREST   LIFE.  199 

I  never  heard  a  noise  more  suddenly  stilled.  Wolf,  dog, 
and  Joe,  were  alike  silenced,  and  the  sharp  crack  of  my 
rifle  echoed  from  across  the  river,  and  then  all  was  hushed. 

The  wolf  was  running,  as  if  mad  with  pain,  up  and 
down  the  rocky  island.  Joe  shot,  but  missed  him.  I 
shot,  and  missed  him.  For  half  an  hour  we  kept  him 
moving,  and  how  many  bullets  we  put  in  him  we  never 
knew.  It  grew  tiresome,  and  we  let  him  alone  for  awhile. 
It  may  be  imagined  that,  in  the  moonlight,  over  dashing, 
sparkling  water,  with  a  poor  background,  and  a  mark  not 
very  different  in  color  from  the  rock  itself,  we  were  not 
to  be  blamed  for  poor  shooting. 

At  length  he  suspended  his  swift  movements.  I  had 
waited  for  the  moment,  and  having  taken  a  careful  aim 
at  his  cheek,  sent  my  ball  to  the  mark.  I  knew  it  by 
the  crashing  sound  which  I  heard  (you  doubt  me  ?)  in 
spite  of  the  water  and  the  wind.  The  wolf  leaped  ten 
feet  into  the  water,  and  we  never  saw  a  hair  of  him  after 
that. 

"  Talking  of  wolves,"  said  Black  one  evening,  a  week 
afterwards,  "  I  can  tell  you  a  story  no  other  man  on  the 
river  can  tell." 

It  was  a  cold  night,  storming  furiously,  and  on  the 
very  edge  of  the  window-sill  was  the  surface  of  the  snow; 
for  it  had  fallen  without  interval  for  nearly  forty-eight 
hours,  and  now  the  wind  was  rising,  and  in  the  morning 
the  drifts  might  be  over  all  the  cabin.  There  was  a  large 
pile  of  wood  in  the  corner,  and  a  glorious  blaze  on  the 
hearth;  and  as  the  wind  roared  outside,  the  chimney 


200  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    RIVER. 

roared  cheerfully  and  sonorously  within ;  and  once  in  a 
while  a  little  mass  of  snow  that  had  gathered  on  the 
chimney- top,  would  come  hissing  down  into  the  fire,  and 
vanish  as  it  touched  the  logs.  Across  the  front  of  the 
hearth  lay  Willis,  on  a  pile  of  deer-skins,  over  which  was 
thrown  a  blanket.  He  was  lying  with  his  back  to  the  fire, 
and  watched  with  curious  earnestness  the  appearance  of 
John's  nose  as  he  lay  sleeping  on  the  floor.  I  was,  as 
usual,  on  my  bear  skin,  in  my  corner,  lying  with  my  eyes 
dazzled  by  the  blaze  into  which  I  was  gazing,  and  sup 
porting  my  chin  by  my  two  hands,  with  my  elbows  buried 
in  the  fur.  Black  sat  on  the  stool  at  the  opposite  side  of 
the  fire,  and  looked  lovingly  at  us.  For  Black  loved  us, 
as  I  have  said.  I  will  describe  him.  He  is  a  large- 
framed  man,  broad-shouldered  and  strong,  but  not  stout 
in  appearance.  His  head  is  of  a  fine  mould,  the  ear 
small,  the  forehead  not  very  high,  but  decidedly  massive, 
his  lip  especially  well  cut,  his  eye  blue  and  quick,  but  not 
sharp,  his  features  thin,  and  his  complexion  pale.  He 
has  not  shaved  for  ten  years,  but  his  black  beard  and 
moustache  are  trimmed  always.  Though  he  does  not  see 
any  one  but  hunters  like  himself  from  year  to  year,  he  is, 
nevertheless,  remarkably  careful  in  this  respect,  and  the 
effect  is  to  give  his  face  that  look  of  dignity  which  you 
see  in  the  old  pictures  of  the  cavaliers.  He  is  about  for 
ty-five  years  old,  and  has  passed  more  than  twenty  of 
those  years  in  the  cabin,  or  one  on  its  site.  Before  com 
ing  here,  he  had  been  in  a  highly  respectable  position, 
and  had  made  a  small  property,  with  the  income  from 


FOREST    LIFE.  201 

which  he  supplies  his  cabin  now  with  every  luxury  he  de 
sires.  He  is  not  much  given  to  reading,  still  less  to 
writing,  but  his  letters  are  capital  sketches  of  the  life  he 
leads,  and  he  tells  a  story  of  familiar  scenes  with  the  un 
mistakable  skill  of  an  intelligent  man.  Do  not  mistake 
me.  Black  is  a  man  of  character,  and  were  he  in  the 
world,  would  make  his  mark.  I  shall  not  say  what  keeps 
him  out  of  it.  That  is  his  own  concern. 

That  scene  in  the  cabin  is  before  you.  Black's  feet 
are  toward  the  fire,  and  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  toes  of  his 
moccasons,  which  he  wears  in  the  evenings.  The  fire-light 
dances  on  the  varied  skins  around  the  cabin  and  on  the 
cross-poles,  the  trophies  of  many  a  long  day's  sport.  The 
dogs  have  selected  each  his  own  place,  and  Nora  lies  as 
usual  between  me  and  the  fire,  baking  her  brain. 

"  Talking  of  wolf-hunts,"  said  Black,  "  I  can  tell  you  a 
story." 

Whereupon  Joe  turned  over  toward  the  fire,  and  looked 
up  at  Black,  but  in  so  doing,  struck  his  foot  against  Nora's 
nose,  who  sprang  suddenly  upon  him,  thinking  it  was  the 
commencement  of  fun,  whereat  Joe  rolled  out  into  the 
room  and  woke  John,  who  joined  the  sport,  and  while 
Joe  was  wrestling  with  the  dogs,  Black  continued,  on  this 
wise  : — 

"  When  I  first  came  to  the  cabin,  there  was  no  clearing 
within  thirty  miles,  and  the  only  neighbor  I  had,  was 

George  B ,  who  died  last  year,  up  by  the  cedar 

hill,  ten  miles  or  so  away.     It  was  a  little  lonesome,  and 

yet  I  liked  it  for  a  year,  and  I  saw  George  three  times 

9* 


202  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    RIVER. 

during  that  twelvemonth.  But  the  next  six  months  I 
never  saw  a  man,  and  I  used  to  sit  and  look  at  myself  in 
the  still  water  over  the  side  of  my  canoe,  and  like  it,  for 
it  seemed  as  if  I  had  company.  But  one  day  in  Novem 
ber  I  was  tired  out  of  being  alone,  and  I  started  off  to 
ward  evening  to  go  up  to  George's.  I  crossed  the  river 
just  here,  and  went  along  up  the  edge  of  the  water, 
swinging  my  rifle  in  my  hand,  whistling  for  company's 
sake,  for  it  made  a  pleasant  echo  in  the  woods.  The 
night  was  coolish,  very  clear,  and  there  was  a  pleasant 
moon.  Just  as  I  reached  the  Rock  brook,  close  on  the 
side  of  the  pond,  I  heard  a  growl  that  startled  me,  and 
stopping  short,  I  saw  a  wolf  standing  with  his  paw  buried 
in  the  carcass  of  a  deer,  while  his  jaws  were  full  of  the 
flesh.  But  he  was  not  eating,  for  he  had  seen  me  and 
seemed  to  be  discussing  the  comparative  merits  of  his 
meal  before  him,  and  the  possible  meal  which  I  presented 
for  him.  He  wasn't  any  of  your  dog  wolves,  but  a  grizzly 
rascal,  large  as  John  yonder,  with  longer  hair  and  stouter 
legs.  He  snarled  once  or  twice  more,  and  I  was  fool 
enough  to  show  fight.  If  I  had  let  him  alone,  he  would 
have  been  content  with  his  feed ;  for  they  are  cowardly 
animals,  except  when  there  are  droves  of  them,  or  unless 
you  disturb  their  eating.  I  took  a  short  aim  at  him,  and 
shot.  He  jumped  the  instant  I  pulled  trigger,  and  I 
missed  his  breast  and  broke  his  fore-paw.  Then  he  yelled 
and  came  at  me,  and  I  heard,  as  I  thought,  fifty  more 
answer  him.  It  wasn't  ten  seconds  before  I  was  in  the 
first  crotch  of  the  nearest  tree,  and  four  of  the  grizzly 


FOREST    LIFE.  203 

scoundrels  were  under  it,  looking  at  me,  whining  and 
licking  their  lips  as  if  their  mouths  watered  for  me.  I 
didn't  understand  their  language,  or  I  would  have  sug 
gested  the  idea  of  satisfying  their  appetites  on  the  deer 
which  lay  a  few  rods  off.  But  I  couldn't  persuade  them 
to  take  any  hints  of  that  sort,  and  so  I  loaded  my  rifle 
and  shot  one  of  them  as  dead  as  the  deer.  There  was 
more  for  them  to  eat  if  they  had  chosen  to  devour  their 
own  sort,  but  I  couldn't  blame  them  for  refusing  the 
lean,  bony  carcass  of  such  a  comrade,  especially  when  a 
tolerably  well-fattened  man  was  in  a  small  sapling  close 
by,  and  the  more  especially  when,  if  they  had  any  eyes, 
they  could  see  that  the  sapling  was  splitting  in  two  at  the 
crotch,  and  I  must  come  down  soon,  in  spite  of  my  repug 
nance  to  a  closer  acquaintance  with  them.  So  it  was 
though,  and  before  I  had  time  to  reload  my  rifle  and  de 
spatch  another  of  them,  crack  went  the  tree  and  I  dropped 
my  rifle  just  quick  enough  to  catch  with  arms  and  legs 
around  the  tree  and  hold  on  for  life,  till  I  eould  get  out  my 
knife  from  my  pocket,  open  it,  and  shove  it  into  my  belt. 
That  done,  I  watched  my  chance,  and  if  there  ever  was  a 
scared  wolf,  that  was  one  when  I  lighted  on  his  back  and 
wound  my  arms  around  him  and  we  rolled  away  together. 
The  other  two  didn't  understand  it  at  all,  and  backed  off 
to  watch  the  fight.  A  pretty  moonlight  tussle  that  was. 
At  length  the  wolf  got  me  under,  and  he  and  I  both 
thought  I  was  done  for.  He  planted  his  two  paws  in  my 
breast,  and  the  claws  left  marks  that  are  there  yet, — while 
he  seized  my  shoulder  with  his  villanous  jaws." 


204  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    RIVER. 

Black  paused  to  show  us  the  scars  on  his  breast  and 
arms,  particularly  the  large  scar  where  the  flesh  was  torn 
from  the  bone  on  his  shoulder.  He  continued  : 

"  I  was  a  little  faint  when  his  teeth  went  in.  It  was  un 
pleasant,  and  I  had  time  to  think  of  a  dozen  other  ways 
of  dying,  any  one  of  which  I  would  have  preferred  to 
that,  had  a  choice  been  possible.  The  wolf  apparently 
didn't  like  the  hold  he  had,  for  he  tore  out  his  teeth,  and 
tore  out  my  coat  shirt  and  flesh  too,  and  seized  again  on 
my  fur  cap.  It  was  a  lucky  mistake  for  me.  I  felt  his 
wet  lips  on  my  forehead,  and  had  just  time  to  let  go  my 
hold  of  his  throat  and  clutch  my  knife,  when  he  shook  off 
the  cap,  and  made  another  attempt  to  get  a  mouthful, 
but  his  throat  was  in  no  fix  to  swallow  it  if  he  got  it,  for 
my  knife-blade  was  working  desperately  across  his  jugu 
lar,  and  the  point  of  it  was  feeling  between  the  vertebras 
for  his  spinal  marrow.  He  was  a  dead  wolf,  and  he  gave 
it  up  like  one  fairly  whipped. 

"  I  had  bled  considerably  when  I  rose,  but  I  wasn't 
weakened  a  particle.  The  whole  had  passed  in  less  than 
half  a  minute,  and  I  was  ready  for  the  other  two,  that 
now  came  at  me  both  together. 

"  I  seized  my  rifle  and  met  one  with  the  barrel  across 
the  nose  and  floored  him.  As  he  picked  himself  up,  I 
seized  him  by  the  hind  foot.  If  the  first  wolf  was  scared 
when  I  fell  on  him,  this  one  was  more  so.  I  shall  never 
forget  the  howl  which  escaped  him  as  I  swung  him  into 
the  air  and  struck  the  other  a  blow  with  the  body  of  his 
comrade.  The  other  one,  the  first  I  had  wounded, 


FOREST   LIFE.  205 

frightened  at  the  novel  fight,  vanished  in  the  woods,  and 
I  was  left  with  this  one  in  my  hands.  He  seemed  to  let 
out  his  voice  with  tremendous  force  as  he  swung  around 
my  head  twice.  The  centrifugal  force,  as  they  used  to 
call  it  at  school,  forced  out  his  wind,  but  as  I  let  him  fly, 
his  scream  was  fairly  demoniacal.  He  went  a  rod  from 
the  bank,  and  the  howl  stopped  only  when  he  reached  the 
water.  I  was  faint  and  weak  now,  and  my  visit  to 
George  was  of  course  out  of  the  question ;  so  I  seized  my 
rifle,  loaded  it  with  difficulty  as  I  ran,  and  following  the 
water,  I  at  length  saw  him  come  up.  He  struck  in  for 
the  shore,  but  seeing  me,  he  didn't  dare  to  land.  I 
teased  him  so  for  two  miles,  and  each  time  he  approached 
the  shore  I  showed  myself  and  he  kept  off.  I  saw  he 
was  getting  tired,  but  I  didn't  want  to  shoot  him  yet,  and 
I  followed  him  till  he  went  over  the  rapids,  and  into  the 
deep  hole  by  the  Haunted  Rock.  Here  I  had  to  leave 
the  river  bank,  and  so  I  watched  him  swimming  along  the 
edge  of  the  rock  until  he  found  a  little  shelf,  on  which  he 
crawled  out  and  shook  his  hide.  But  he  couldn't  get  up 
that  rock, — that  was  pretty  certain ;  and  while  he  was  dis 
cussing  it  all  alone  by  himself,  I  helped  him  settle  the  ques 
tion  with  a  rifle  ball  in  his  side.  He  gave  a  mad  half-bark 
and  half -yell,  and  sprang  into  the  river,  but  didn't  rise  again. 
"  How  I  got  to  my  canoe  I  don't  know.  I  managed  to 
paddle  over  and  get  in  here,  half  dead,  with  my  blood  all 
over  me,  and  my  wounds  frozen  dry.  Jt  was  a  month 
before  I  was  well  enough  to  hunt  again,  and  I  have  been 
shy  of  wolves  ever  since." 


206  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    RIVER. 

As  Black  concluded,  I  looked  at  him  with  wonder 
ment,  knowing  that  this  was  not  the  most  hazardous  ad 
venture  of  his  life  by  many.  He  gazed  into  the  fire  a 
little  while  without  speaking,  sighed  heavily,  and  then  re 
suming  his  kindly  look  again,  stooped  to  pat  John,  who 
was  sleeping  with  his  broad  lower  jaw  on  Joe's  breast, 
while  Joe  lay  on  his  back,  looking  up  at  the  bark  roof, 
and  listening  to  the  roar  of  the  tempest. 

I  have  so  frequently  mentioned  the  hounds,  that  no  one 
can  have  failed  to  observe  that  we  have  regarded  them 
always  with  the  affection  of  old  friends :  accustomed,  as  we 
have  been,  to  relying  on  them  for  companionship  often 
for  weeks  together,  this  is  not  strange;  and  they  de 
serve  a  separate  chapter  of  biography,  in  the  chronicle 
of  our  lives. 

Of  Leo,  I  have  heretofore  written,  and  I  have  re 
counted  the  death  of  John.  Echo  was  a  younger  dog,  of 
the  same  breed ;  and  Nora,  who  lies  at  my  feet  even  now, 
is  a  hound  of  greater  value  than  can  be  measured  by 
money.  John  was  a  dog  of  unusual  tenacity  of  purpose, 
and,  to  use  a  familiar  phrase,  had  uncommon  bottom. 

In  one  of  our  autumn  visits  to  the  cabin,  I  had  taken 
with  me  three  dogs,  John,  Hero,  and  Nora.  The  two 
last  named  were  then  young.  John  usually  outran  all 
the  chase ;  and  having  better  bottom,  lasted  longer  on  a 
run  of  some  hours.  He  had  never  run  with  Hero  nor 
Nora,  and  I  was  uncertain,  indeed,  as  to  what  their  abil 
ity  might  be  in  a  long  chase.  One  morning,  however,  we 
left  John  at  the  cabin,  and  took  out  Hero,  Nora,  and 


FOREST    LIFE.  207 

Lion,  a  dog  then  belonging  to  Black.  Within  ten  min 
utes  they  opened  and  went  down  toward  the  creek,  pass 
ing  between  the  cabin  and  the  river.  John,  hearing  their 
voices,  broke  his  rope,  and  dashing  through  the  little 
window  which  was  open,  overtook  them  with  tremendous 
leaps,  and  the  whole  four  went  in  full  cry  across  the 
creek,  and  again  out  on  the  mountain.  Their  voices 
grew  fainter  and  fainter,  and  at  length  died  wholly  away. 
Placing  ourselves  at  the  runs,  we  waited  patiently  two 
hours  before  we  heard  a  sound,  and  then  I  caught  John's 
voice  at  least  four  miles  off.  An  instant  afterwards  I 
heard  a  fainter  sound,  which  was  not  the  same,  and  yet 
much  like  it.  "Willis,  who  was  lying  by  my  side,  said, 
"  Can  that  be  an  echo  ?"  "  Impossible,"  said  I.  The 
cry  approached,  and  as  it  came  nearer,  it  was  absolutely 
puzzling,  for  I  could  swear  to  John's  voice  in  both  cases. 
"  It  is  an  echo,"  said  Joe.  "  Then  it's  a  travelling 
echo,"  said  I,  "  for  it  sticks  to  John."  Directly  it  be 
came  more  clear,  and  there  was  now,  evidently,  some 
distance  between  the  two  voices,  and  Joe  deliberately 
insisted  on  his  idea  of  an  echo ;  and,  at  length,  our  dis 
cussion  was  interrupted  by  the  deer  dashing  down  to  the 
water  at  our  run,  and  Joe  shot  him.  At  the  next  in 
stant,  Nora  and  John  came  up  side  by  side ;  and  as  I 
saw  them,  I  heard  the  other  sound  some  hundred  rods 
below,  and  hurrying  down,  reached  the  second  run  in 
time  to  see  a  deer  take  to  the  water,  with  Hero  close  on 
him.  "  Here  is  your  echo,  Joe,"  said  I  to  myself,  as  I 
saw  the  good  dog  standing  on  the  river  bank,  watching 


208  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    RIVER. 

the  swimming  buck,  which  was  out  of  my  reach.  The 
deer  crossed,  was  shot  at  on  the  opposite  side  by  some 
one,  and  turned  instantly  back  into  the  water,  and  swam 
towards  me.  As  he  came  out  on  my  side,  he  was  ready 
to  charge  Hero,  who  was  ready  to  receive  him.  Already, 
his  hair  was  bristling  forward,  and  his  eye  flashing,  and 
he  had  made  the  first  bound  toward  the  dog,  when  my 
ball  struck  him,  and  he  staggered  forward  and  fell. 
Hero  seized  him  and  held  his  head  till  I  cut  his  throat, 
and  thenceforth  was  called  Echo,  in  memory  of  his  first 
long  run  and  brave  bringing-in  of  the  deer.  It  proved 
him  and  Nora  fully  equal  to  John,  and  their  names  soon 
became  well  known  along  the  river. 

Several  years  after  that,  a  jealousy  arose  between  the 
hunters  on  the  two  several  sides  of  the  river,  and  a 
threat  was  made,  that  if  the  dogs  of  either  were  found  on 
the  opposite  side,  they  should  be  shot.  One  morning, 
Nora  and  Echo  brought  the  deer  down  the  river  on  our 
side,  but  some  hundred  rods  above  the  run,  and  the  deer 
crossing,  they  swam  after  him.  Instantly  fearing  for 
them,  I  crossed  in  the  canoe,  and  waited  the  turn  of  the 
game,  which  I  judged  from  the  closeness  of  the  dogs  at 
his  heels,  would  not  be  far  oif.  Ten  minutes  might  have 
passed  when  I  heard  a  rifle-shot.  Five  minutes  more, 
and  I  saw  the  deer  dash  into  the  river  at  the  run,  and 
swim  across.  Willis  shot  him  on  the  eastern  bank.  But 
the  dogs  did  not  come.  I  called  them  with  as  loud  a 
voice  as  I  could  raise,  and  at  length  they  came  out  of  the 
cover,  and  turned  their  heads  toward  me.  I  saw  in  an 


FOREST    LIFE.  209 

instant  that  Echo  was  hurt,  and  Nora  was  running  for 
ward  and  then  back  to  his  side,  as  if  encouraging  him  to 
make  a  little  more  exertion,  only  a  little  more,  and  he 
would  be  in  safe  hands.  My  poor  Echo  staggered 
toward  me,  and  as  I  advanced  to  meet  him,  fell  at  my 
feet,  and  licked  my  shoes.  Nora,  for  an  instant,  seemed 
perfectly  rejoiced  to  have  got  Echo  safely  to  me,  and 
sprang  on  me,  and  then  around  me,  barking  vociferously. 
But  suddenly  catching  her  companion's  eye,  she  stopped, 
and  coming  up  to  him,  licked  the  blood  from  his  neck, 
and  stood  directly  over  him,  looking  mournfully  into  his 
face,  as  I  raised  his  head  on  my  hand  to  examine  him. 

Echo  was  shot  through  the  neck,  and  at  the  first  look 
I  feared  the  worst.  He  had  been  doubtless  close  on  the 
game,  and  side  by  side  with  Nora,  when  the  ball  struck 
him.  And  she,  gallant  dog,  when  he  fell,  gave  up  the 
chase,  and  turned  to  help  him.  As  I  knelt  by  Echo  on 
the  shore,  I  felt  a  deeper  sorrow  than  you  would  believe 
possible  for  the  loss  of  such  a  friend.  My  companion 
was  dying.  In  countless  scenes  of  my  life  the  good  dog 
had  been  with  me  and  shared  my  fare,  good  or  poor,  on 
equal  terms.  Not  a  hunter  on  the  river  but  knew  Echo 
and  Nora,  and  I  did  not  think  a  man  could  be  found  that 
would  shoot  either  of  them  knowingly. 

Yet,  as  I  knelt  there,  he  came  out  of  the  woods 
toward  me.  My  attention  was  called  to  him  by  Nora's 
growling  and  showing  her  teeth.  I  turned,  and  he  ad 
vanced,  saying,  with  an  oath,  "  You'll  learn  to  keep  your 
dogs  in  their  place  after  this."  "  Are  you  the  scoundrel 


210  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    RIVER. 

that  shot  that  dog  ?"  "  None  of  your  scoundrels  to  me. 
If  you  don't  use  better  names,  I'll  teach  you  the  lesson 
your  dog  got."  "  My  man,"  said  I,  "  you  would  do  well 
to  keep  your  mouth  carefully  shut  until  you  are  in  cover 
yonder  ;  for  if  you  open  your  lips  again  to  use  such  lan 
guage,  I'll  point  my  finger  at  you  —  nothing  more  —  and 
that  dog  will  tear  you  into  more  pieces  than  there  will 
be  seconds  in  the  next  minute.  You  see  her.  She  would 
be  delighted  to  get  hold  of  you,  and  if  she  makes  one  leap 
at  you,  I'll  not  take  the  trouble  to  call  her  off."  As  I 
spoke,  he  looked  at  me  ;  and  when  I  concluded,  he  began 
to  move  his  rifle  from  his  shoulder  ;  but  Nora  crouched 
for  a  leap,  and  her  low  growl  seemed  to  be  full  of  con 
densed  anger  as  she  fixed  her  eyes  on  him.  I  knelt  again 
by  the  side  of  Echo,  and  paid  no  farther  attention  to  him. 
At  this  moment,  unseen  by  me,  Black,  who  had  crossed 
in  the  other  canoe,  came  up,  and  as  he  approached,  the 
villain  turned  back  into  the  cover,  and  we  lifted  Echo 
into  the  canoe,  and  paddled  slowly  across. 

All  our  care  proved  useless,  and  the  next  morning,  a 
little  after  sunrise,  he  was  dead.  Nora  never  left  his  side 
till  we  buried  him.  Joe  selected  a  place  to  bury  him,  at 
the  foot  of  a  high  rock,  and  I  spent  half  the  forenoon  in 
chiselling  on  the  rock's  side,  above  the  grave,  with  a  broken 
blade  of  a  knife  for  a  chisel,  and  a  stone  for  a  mallet, 

THIS  IS  THE  GRAVE   OF 


THE    HU»T   IS    ENDED. 


FOKEST    LIFE.  211 

To  this  day,  Nora  remembers  her  old  companion,  and 
starts  when  his  name  is  called.  One  night,  last  Fall,  we 
were  gliding  down  the  river  in  a  swift  current.  Joe 
was  guiding  the  canoe,  and  I  lay  down  and  read  aloud 
by  the  light  of  a  pine-knot,  from  a  chance  newspaper  we 
had  picked  up  that  day,  the  incidents  of  the  far-off  me 
tropolis.  No  painter  could  do  justice  to  that  scene.  No 
painter  could  introduce  the  ripple  of  the  river,  the  steady 
swaying  of  Willis's  tall  form  to  the  paddle  stroke,  the 
swift  gliding  of  the  water  by  the  side  of  the  canoe,  the 
occasional  cry  of  a  night  bird  on  the  mountain  side,  the 
holy  stars  looking  peacefully  down  on  us  as  we  swept 
swiftly  along  with  the  stream.  There  was  a  moan  of 
wind  on  the  hill-tops,  and  we  could  see  at  times,  tall 
hemlocks  against  the  star-lit  sky,  swinging  their  branches 
solemnly,  as  if  joining  in  a  mystical  worship.  But  it  was 
perfectly  still  on  the  water,  until  I  had  finished  reading, 
folded  the  paper,  and  laid  my  head  on  Nora,  who  was  oc 
cupying  the  extreme  stern  of  the  canoe.  Then  a  gust 
came  down  the  mountain  and  dashed  my  fire-light  over 
board,  and  we  shot  swiftly  onward.  Seeing  my  position, 
Joe  shouted  "  Echo  !"  Nora  sprang  from  under  me,  and 
was  at  his  side  in  an  instant.  But  no  Echo  was  there, 
and  she  looked  wistfully  up  to  his  face,  as  if  to  ask  if  in 
deed  he  had  called  her  old  companion. 

The  recollection  of  that  day  and  night  comes  to  me 
with  startling  force  now.  The  day  had  been  a  long  and 
weary  one,  marked  by  only  one  incident,  yet  that  one  had 
left  a  deep  impression  on  both  our  minds.  We  had 


212  THB    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    RIVER. 

stumbled  on  a  solitary  grave  in  the  midst  of  the  forest, 
and  were  started  by  the  suddenness  of  the  discovery.  For 
a  grave,  wherever  found,  preaches  a  short  and  pithy  ser 
mon  to  the  soul. 

It  was  on  this  wise.  Black  had  taken  the  long  canoe 
some  ten  miles  up  the  river,  and  left  it  there.  The  day 
before,  we  had  left  the  cabin  at  an  early  hour  before  day 
light,  and  hunted  the  day  out,  but  found  no  game,  and  were 
fifteen  miles  from  the  cabin  at  dark.  So  contenting  our 
selves  as  well  as  we  could  with  the  hard  bread  in  our 
pockets,  and  making  a  good  fire,  we  sat  and  talked  till 
the  small  hours  came  on,  and  then  after  turning  over 
half-a-dozen  times  to  find  which  side  was  the  softest,  I 
at  length  succeeded  in  making  myself  comfortable,  and 
slept  deliciously.  I  suppose  Willis  did  the  same.  I 
asked  no  questions  in  the  morning  when  I  awoke,  and 
found  him  lying  on  his  back  with  his  eyes  open. 

Joe  was  fortunate  in  hitting  a  partridge  that  was  sit 
ting  on  a  tree,  and  we  breakfasted  at  eight  o'  the  clock, 
on  broiled  partridge  and  cold  corn  bread.  Refreshed  no 
less  by  the  brilliancy  of  the  morning  than  by  the  break 
fast,  we  trudged  toward  the  river,  which  lay  some  seven 
miles  from  us.  We  were  walking  some  rods  apart,  when 
I  came  suddenly  on  that  grave.  It  was  on  an  oak-shaded 
mound,  around  which  a  stream  bent  almost  in  a  circle, 
and  then  ran  on  toward  the  river.  I  was  laughing  aloud 
at  one  of  Joe's  characteristic  witticisms,  when  I  suddenly 
stepped  on  it.  There  is  no  mistaking  a  grave,  meet  it 
where  you  may.  I  have  sometimes  been  inclined  to  be- 


FOREST    LIFE.  213 

lieve  the  old  superstition,  that  one  cannot  walk  over  the 
dead  without  a  chill  at  heart.  But  this  was  palpably  a 
resting-place  of  clay  that  had  once  been  the  jailor  of  im 
mortality. 

I  paused  reverently,  and  the  laugh  died  on  my  lip. 
Joe  turned  to  see  the  cause  of  such  a  sudden  stop. 
"  Phil !"  No  answer.  "  What's  the  matter,  Phil  ?"  No 
reply.  "  What's  there  ?"  "Come  here,  Joe."  He  came,  and 
looking  down,  exclaimed,  "  Ah — I  see.  Here,  as  every 
where.  Well,  well,  the  dead  sleep  well.  Let's  go  on." 

But- 1 — not  so  ready  to  move  from  that  holy  spot  in 
the  forest,  (holy  because  the  entrance  to  eternity  was 
there,  a  gate  to  immortality) — threw  myself  down  on  the 
turf,  and  sought  with  my  hands  among  the  dried  leaves 
that  covered  the  mound,  for  some  memento  of  the  dead 
one. 

At  length  I  found  a  rude  stone,  from  which  I  cleared 
the  leaves  and  moss,  and  sought  an  inscription.  But  in 
vain.  There  was  a  mark,  as  if  the  hand  of  affection  had 
traced  with  a  rude  graver  on  the  rough,  unhewn  forest 
rock,  the  sign  of  salvation  through  the  Crucified ;  but 
whether  it  was  truly  a  cross,  or  whether  it  was  a  letter  T, 
or  simply  an  indentation  in  the  stone,  I  could  not  tell 
certainly,  but  I  thought  it  was  the  former. 

I  like  that  cross.  Say  of  it  what  you  will,  I  like, 
wherever  I  meet  it,  the  symbol  of  our  holy  faith.  I  like 
it  on  the  church-spire,  where  between  the  sunshine  and 
the  earth,  it  stands  showing  to  all  men  that  we  worship 
the  Son  of  God,  and  where  the  eye  that  looks  to  it,  with 


214  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    RIVER. 

the  same  gaze  looks  on  to  heaven.  I  like  it  on  the  breast, 
jewelled  and  gold,  where  it  makes  a  never-ceasing  ac 
knowledgment  of  the  creed  of  the  Christian.  I  like  it  on 
the  grave,  and  though  it  be  now  the  property  (by  adop 
tion)  of  a  church  that  calls  me  a  heretic,  still  it  is  pleas 
ant  to  me  to  see  a  tablet  marked  with  the  mark  of  Cal 
vary,  and  the  initials  of  His  holiest  title  "I.  H.  S." 

"  The  dead,"  said  Willis,  "  sleep  well,"  and  I  looked 
for  an  instant  enviously  on  that  shadowy  sleeping-place, 
where  the  weary  one  was  at  rest ! 

Enviously,  I  say ;  for  there  was  a  sense  of  deep  repose 
about  it,  an  utter  separation  from  the  labor  of  living.  No 
heavy  roar  of  carriages  echoes  in  the  vaulted  sepulchre — 
no  voice — scarce  audible  hum  of  humanity,  steals  down 
among  coffined  sleepers.  Not  even  the  grief  of  the  living 
disturbed  that  profound  rest,  nor  tears  of  agony,  which 
would,  if  aught  could,  make  restless  in  their  sleep  the 
buried  ones,  fall  on  the  mound.  The  rustle  of  the  leaves 
in  autumn,  that  low  musical  rustle,  which  is  the  fittingly 
mournful  lullaby  of  the  death-slumber,  the  ripple,  of  the 
brook  over  an  unseen  rock — these  sounds  alone  broke  the 
deep  stillness  of  the  forest  sleeper's  chamber.  That 
chamber  was  the  temple  of  God,  not  made  with  hands. 
The  arches  of  the  forest  trees  were  its  roof,  and  through 
the  irregular  windows  that  let  in  the  light,  I  could  see 
the  far-away  blue  of  His  all- watching  eye.  "  The  dead 
sleep  well." 

So  turning  to  Willis  who  had  seated  himself  on  the  foot 
of  the  grave,  while  I  was  kneeling  at  the  head,  groping 


FOREST    LIFE.  215 

with  my  fingers  about  that  cross-marked  stone,  I  preached 
him  a  sermon  from  his  text. 

Aye  Joe — they  sleep  well  "after  life's  fitful  fever."  It 
was  but  a  few  weeks  ago,  that  we  were  seated  together  by 
the  fire-side  at  home,  and  some  one  said  of  a  friend,  "  she 
is  dead." 

Lucy's  little  Jamie,  a  bright  boy  of  scarce  four  years, 
looked  up  from  his  play,  and  echoed  the  word  in  a  sad 
tone,  "  Dead?  Dead  ?"  and  then  seemed  buried  in  thought 
for  awhile,  until,  with  a  deep  sigh,  he  said,  "  How  many 
are  dead !"  and  coming  to  his  mother  laid  his  head  on  her 
lap  and  named  over  the  friends  he,  so  very  young,  had 
missed  from  their  accustomed  places.  But  their  weari 
ness  is  over.  In  the  twilight  of  a  sunny  land,  when  the 
worshipper  of  the  prophet  goes  home  from  toil,  as  he 
passes  near  the  walls  of  St.  Sophia,  he  hears  a  call,  and 
pausing  reverently,  obeys  the  musical  voice  that  falls  as 
from  the  sky,  "  To  Prayer."  In  the  stillness  of  their 
souls,  when  the  labor  of  life  had  been  toilsome  and  the 
twilight  of  sorrow  had  fallen  grayly  and  coldly  over  them, 
a  voice  fell  from  heaven  in  tones  more  melodious  than 
ever  fell  Muezzin  voice  from  Minaret  of  Omar,  filling  the 
stilled  air  with  its  winning  sweetness,  "  Come  unto  me  ye 
weary."  They  sleep  well ! 

But  I  was  speaking  of  the  hounds,  when  I  was  led 
into  this  digression.  Leo,  Echo,  and  John  are  dead.  A 
kennel  of  younger  dogs  of  the  same  breed,  stout,  broad- 
breasted,  heavy  hounds,  make  the  moonlight  nights  around 
the  old  hall  hideous  with  their  baying.  Nora,  calm 


216  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THH    RIVER. 

and  contented,  rests  at  my  feet  on  the  wolf-skin  hearth 
rug,  and  loses  not  a  word  of  the  conversation  around  her. 
Lucy  and  the  children  regard  her  as  their  safest  com 
panion,  and  Joe  and  I  look  lovingly  on  the  good  dog.  She 
is  as  intelligent  as  half  the  men  in  the  world,  and  has 
proved  her  reasoning  faculties  often  to  my  entire  satis 
faction. 

The  very  last  day  that  we  were  at  our  cabin,  I  had  oc 
casion  to  go  to  the  Post-office,  ten  miles  down  the  river, 
and  took  Nora  for  company.     We  made  the  walk  pleas 
ant  by  an  interchange  of  sentiments  on  various  subjects 
— for  Nora  has  a  speaking  eye,  and  when  anything  pleases 
or  displeases  her,  she  will  stand  and  look  with  as  decided 
an  expression  of  approbation  or  disapproval  in  her  eye 
and  face,  as  you  can  find  in  many  men's  countenances. 
She  was  running  some  rods  in  front  of  me,  and  came  to 
a  bend  in  the  river  where  there  was  a  broad  and  compar 
atively  still  sheet  of  water.     I  saw  her  stop  and  look  at 
the  water,  and  then  turn  her  face  toward  me  with  an  ex 
pression  that  I  am  perfectly  familiar  with.     It  said  as 
plainly  as  words  could  say,  "  Come  here  and  look.    Here's 
something  worth  seeing."     So  I  walked  up  to  her,  and 
saw  that  she  was  looking  at  a  loon  that  was  sitting  on 
the  water  about  sixty  yards  from  the  shore.     The  mo 
ment  I  saw  it,  Nora  looked  up  into  my  face  with  a  sort 
of  smile  that  was  half  comical  and  half  satisfied,  and  I 
said,  "Yes,  yes,  Nora,  I  see  him.'1     She  then  turned 
away  and  ran  on,  and  I  followed  her.     Nora,  the  dog, 
understood  perfectly  well  that  that  loon  was  no  game, 


FOREST   LIFE.  217 

and  so  didn't  wait  to  see  me  shoot,  nor  wonder  why  I 
did  not.  Had  it  been  a  duck  or  a  goose,  she  would  have 
stood  till  I  shot,  and  then  gone  after  it,  nor  could  I  have 
called  her  very  easily  away  from  the  place  if  I  had  not 
shot.  But  she  had  often  seen  me  glance  at  loons,  and 
she  knew  that  they  were  worth  looking  at,  but  not  worth 
shooting.  And  her  face,  as  she  stood  on  the  bank,  was 
decidedly  expressive  of  enjoyment  of  the  scene. 

We  strolled  along  down  the  river  bank,  and  at  length 
reached  a  spot  in  which  I  have  often  lingered  as  one  of 
eminent  beauty.  The  forest  is  not  so  dense  here,  but 
the  trees  are  lofty,  and  intertwine  their  branches  far  up 
from  the  ground ;  and  when  the  wind  begins  to  rise,  as  it 
did  when  we  entered  the  opening,  there  is  a  faint  sound 
as  of  the  murmur  of  a  crowd  falling  in  the  air  and  filling 
it  with  an  indistinct  melody.  I  have  often  thought  it 
like  that  indescribable  sound  which  is  always  hanging 
over  a  great  city,  (who  has  not  noticed  it  ?)  and  which 
is  perfectly  distinct  from  the  roar  of  carriages  and  the 
tramp  of  men  and  horses  over  the  pavements.  I  have 
listened  to  it  in  a  still  night,  and  it  has  seemed  to  me  to 
be  the  mingling  of  a  half  million  voices,  giving  utterance 
to  the  varied  passions  and  emotions  of  as  many  souls. 
It  is  the  far-off  surf  roar  of  the  great  ocean  of  life,  as  one 
by  one  its  waves  break  on  surrounding  shores,  or  meet 
and  struggle  with  one  another,  and  fall  with  fainter  mur 
muring  into  the  deep. 

Having  gone  on  to  the  Post-office  without  adventure, 
I  obtained  my  letters,  and  returned  to  the  same  spot, 
10 


'218  THE    OLD    HOUSE    Bf    THE    RIVER. 

where  I  rested  on  a  fallen  tree,  and  became  absorbed  in 
the  contents  of  my  letters  and  papers,  so  that  I  did  not 
hear  a  sound  until  Nora  uttered  a  low  ejaculation  or 
whine,  and  I  started  up.  The  dog  had  seen  a  deer  com 
ing  down  to  the  opposite  side  of  the  river  on  a  full  run, 
and  taking  to  the  water.  She  knew  well  enough  to  keep 
silent,  and  had  called  my  attention  without  too  much 
noise. 

The  deer  crossed  and  came  up  with  long,  graceful 
leaps  as  he  reached  shallow  water.  I  was  in  an  exposed 
position,  but  did  not  dare  to  move,  lest  his  quick  eye 
should  detect  me.  He  was  a  noble  fellow,  with  head 
thrown  up,  and  nostrils  distended,  proving  by  this  last 
indication  that  he  was  chased.  Yet  I  heard  no  sound  of 
dogs  on  the  other  side.  At  length  he  reached  the  shore, 
but  caught  sight  of  me  before  his  body  was  fairly  up  the 
bank,  and  wheeling  instantly,  dashed  back  into  the  water. 
I  sprang  to  my  feet  and  sent  a  ball  after  him.  His  head 
and  neck  were  all  that  were  above  the  bank,  and  I  shot 
for  the  junction  of  them  both ;  that  is,  I  designed  to  hit 
him  back  of  his  ear,  and,  if  it  might  be,  break  his  spine. 
This  I  think  the  safest  shot  in  such  cases,  inasmuch  as  a 
ball  in  the  head  is  always  doubtful,  except  when  deer  are 
swimming  and  the  head  is  moving  in  a  direct  line.  But 
probably  in  this  case  the  flapping  of  a  large  ear  prevent 
ed  my  aim  from  being  accurate ;  and  he  did  not  stop,  but 
was  out  of  sight  before  I  could  send  a  second  ball  after 
him.  Dashing  down  stream,  he  re-crossed  some  thirty 
rods  below,  and  as  he  went  out  on  the  other  side,  was 


FOREST    LIFE.  219 

shot  by  a  man  from  up  stream,  whom  I  recognized.  By 
signs  he  gave  me  to  understand  that  my  ball  had  passed 
through  the  neck ;  but  as  it  was  late,  and  I  was  behind 
my  time  already,  I  did  not  wait  for  farther  conversation, 
nor  did  I  demand  my  share,  but  pushed  on  homeward. 

The  wind  went  down  with  the  sun,  and  a  deep  repose 
appeared  to  be  falling  on  nature.  There  was  a  lazy  loll 
ing  of  the  tree-tops  on  the  air,  as  boats  might  rock  on  a 
heavy  ground-swell  at  sea.  But  there  was  no  voice  nor 
any  appearance  of  life  in  all  the  forest.  The  stillness 
was  profound,  and  the  hush  of  nature  entered  my  soul. 
As  I  walked  slowly  along  in  the  glooming  twilight,  I  be 
came  strangely  sad,  or,  perhaps,  I  should  rather  say,  se 
rious,  and  solemn  thoughts  filled  my  mind.  The  old 
fancy,  and  the  pleasantest  one  of  all  my  life,  to  which  I 
cling  with  religious  faith,  returned  upon  me.  I  felt  that 
the  dead  might  there  visit  me  again.  Their  breath  was 
in  the  charmed  air,  their  voices  in  my  soul  of  souls ! 
Their  invisible  forms  filled  the  forest  around  me,  and 
made  holier  the  rays  of  the  first  star  that  peered  down 
through  the  branches  of  the  trees.  Anon  I  fancied  the 
stillness  broken,  by  their  musical  voices  singing  a  hymn 
of  peace.  How  it  floated  up  into  the  sky!  How  it 
thrilled  in  the  dim  arches  !  How  it  won  my  soul  with 
its  holy  sweetness !  I  sat  down  on  a,  rock,  and  Nora 
came  and  lay  at  my  feet.  It  was  dark,  and  grew  darker 
as  clouds  swept  up  the  sky  and  hid  the  stars.  The  wind 
rose,  and  now  moaned  in  the  tree-tops,  as  when  a  coming 
storm  foretells  its  coldness  in  those  low  tones. 


220  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    RIVER. 

I  had  reached  a  hill,  on  which  I  now  stood,  and  looked 
over  the  forest.  The  trees  tossed  their  branches  to  and 
fro,  and  the  green  hemlocks  rose  and  fell,  and  dashed 
hither  and  thither,  looking  like  the  waves  of  a  stormy 
sea.  I  fancied  myself  again  on  the  ocean-shore.  The 
wind-wail  grew  wilder.  Every  tone  imaginable  might  be 
heard.  Shouts,  as  if  of  sailors  on  some  struggling  ship; 
loud  shouts,  louder,  and  now  a  scream  of  terror ;  and  at 
length  as  the  gust  grew  strong  in  the  branches  of  a  leaf 
less  oak  above  me,  I  fancied  I  could  hear  the  whistling 
of  the  sea-wind  through  the  cordage  of  the  vessel  as  she 
neared  the  shore,  and  that  grew  fiercer  and  shriller  till 
— crash — a  giant  hemlock  went  down  on  the  hill-side,  and 
the  wind  howled  fiercely,  and  the  crash  of  the  great  tree 
through  smaller  ones,  and  the  howl  of  the  wind,  were  so 
wild,  that  I  added  my  shout  to  the  accumulated  noise, 
and  that  broke  so  suddenly  on  the  air  that  the  wind 
seemed  scared  and  instantly  hushed  to  perfect  stillness. 
It  was  as  if  the  wind  had  been  a  living,  longing  being, 
and  had  been  revelling  all  alone  in  the  dark  forest,  but 
was  startled  at  the  unexpected  presence  of  a  man.  At 
this  instant,  while  my  eye  was  fixed  on  the  surface  of  the 
tossing  sea  to  northward,  I  saw  the  top  of  a  distant  hem 
lock  suddenly  grow  white,  and  was  astonished,  as  you  may 
well  imagine.  In  the  deep  gloom  the  appearance  of  the 
forest  had  been  so  sea-like,  that  but  little  imagination 
was  necessary  to  make  it  perfect,  But  when  I  saw  a 
foam-crest  on  the  top  of  a  wave  I  was  not  a  little  startled. 
Wheeling  to  the  east  I  saw  a  rift  in  the  black  clouds, 


FOREST    LIFE. 


221 


and  doubted  not  that  a  stray  moonbeam  had  escaped 
through  it,  and  fallen  on  the  far-off  tree. 

A  half  hour  later,  as  I  came  out  on  the  bank  of  the 
creek,  and  shouted  for  Joe  to  ferry  me  over,  I  looked  up 
to  the  sky.  It  was  clear  and  cloudless.  The  stars  sat 
silently,  calmy,  happily  on  their  thrones.  The  wind  was 
wholly  gone,  and  the  moonlight  danced  on  the  ripples  of 
the  river. 

For  the  memory  of  a  hundred  such  days  in  the  forest  we 
love  Nora,  and  we  love  the  memory  of  her  brave  fellows. 
There  were  holier  reasons  for  loving  Leo.  Of  those  I 
have  spoken. 


XIII. 


ONE  winter  evening  our  conversation  was  about  spir 
itual  existence,  and  the  presence  of  the  invisible ;  and 
in  this,  Willis  and  myself  agree  substantially  on  every 
point ;  therefore  we  have  no  occasion  to  debate  ;  but 
when  the  subject  arises,  as  it  frequently  does,  for  it  is 
the  pleasantest  of  all  topics  to  both  of  us,  we  sit  looking 
at  the  fire,  and  one  speaks  while  the  other  listens — speaker 
and  listener  alternating — until  at  length  we  sit  silently, 
and  the  spirits  who  have  listened  to  us,  I  doubt  not, 
whisper  to  us  words  that  confirm  us  in  our  creed. 

I  mentioned  the  death  of  one  whom  he  and  I  had 
known  and  perhaps  had  loved.  For  I  love  many,  and 
so  does  Willis. 

"  Speak  lower,  Phil;  he  hears  you." 

"  Joe,  why  is  it  that  we  have  a  way  of  speaking  lower 
when  we  talk  of  the  spiritual  ?  Do  you  think  it  matters 
anything  to  them  how  loud  or  how  low  we  speak  ?" 

"  No — doubtless  not.  And  yet  when  we  talk  of  mat 
ters  of  deep  interest  to  the  soul  it  seems  to  be  desirable 
to  reduce  our  conversation  as  nearly  to  the  spiritual  as 
10* 


226  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    RIVER. 

is  possible.  I  would  never  speak  of  the  dead  in  other 
than  gentle  language,  nor  of  heaven  in  tones  of  earthly 
enthusiasm.  I  do  not  believe  that  on  them  our  voices 
make  any  impression,  for  they  know  and  read  our 
thoughts  before  we  utter  them.  It  is  their  holy  com 
munion  with  us  to-night  that  has  so  subdued  me ;  and 
sometimes  I  have  fancied,  even  while  sitting  here,  that  I 
should  burst  into  tears,  though  I  have  not  wept  since — 

since But  let  that  pass.     They  are  here.     Be  sure 

of  that,  Phil.  I  heard  a  voice  but  a  moment  since  with 
my  spiritual  ears,  which  was  none  other  than  the  voice 
of  my  sainted  mother.  Her  voice  has  passed  away  from 
the  earth  a  score  of  years.  Its  very  memory  exists  not 
save  in  my  own  heart.  But  it  was  not  the  memory  of  it 
that  startled  me  just  now.  It  was  her  own  self  bending 
lovingly  over  me,  and  saying  to  the  troubled  waters  in 
my  soul,  '  Peace,  be  still;'  for  they  are  still,  and  memory 
would  not  have  prevailed  thus. 

"  And  if  you  would  convince  me  that  I  am  wrong  in 
my  firm  belief,  you  must  invent  some  power  to  lay  the 
spiritual  visitors  I  haye  o'  nights  in  this  dear  old  house, 
and  unweave  the  wizard  spells  that  so  surround  me 
here,  and  charm  away  the  kisses  that  wake  me  so  joy 
ously  at  midnight,  and  the  white  arms  that  so  fondly 
enfold  me.  I  know,  as  you  know,  Phil,  that  the  forms  I 
see  in  dreams,  not  sleeping,  but  broad-awake  dreams,  are 
long  since  mould ;  aye,  dust — dust — scattered,  mayhap, 
on  the  wind.  I  know  those  lips  that  so  gladden  me  are 
ashes,  and  that  the  arms  whose  meek  embrace  awakes 


SPIRITUAL    PRESENCE.  227 

me,  have  lost  their  whiteness  and  their  roundness.  It  is 
not  those  lips  and  arms  I  feel.  It  is  not  those  forms  I 
see.  But  it  is  the  same  kiss,  the  same  fond  clasp,  my 
soul  receives !" 

"  And  wherefore  not,  Joe  ?  I  am  as  well  satisfied  of 
this  as  you.  I  doubt  not  their  presence.  A  spirit  knows 
no  distance,  exists  no  where.  It  is,  so  far  as  space  and 
distance  are  concerned,  omnipresent.  It  does  not  change 
place,  it  has  no  motion ;  it  is  not  as  we  used  to  say,  in 
analytical  geometry,  related  to  any  axes.  Thus,  if  at 
this  moment,  a  spirit  is  in  communion  with  you,  it  is  not 
necessarily  in  this  room,  so  far  from  the  sides,  and  so  far 
from  floor  and  ceiling.  In  short,  spiritual  existence 
knows  no  space,  and  hence,  if  your  gentle  mother  be  in 
communion  with  the  inhabitants  of  the  faintest  star  that 
glimmers  yonder  through  the  old  oak  tree,  and  desires 
to  whisper  joyful  words  to  you,  she  has  but  to  turn  her 
attention  to  you  and  she  is  with  you  instantly,  and  as 
instantly  may  return  to  her  converse  with  the  inhabit 
ants  of  the  star.  To  her,  as  to  all  who  have  passed 
from  the  material  to  the  immaterial,  America  and  Asia, 
the  earth  and  the  sun,  stars  and  the  material  universe, 
all  are  present,  and  she  present  with  all. 

"  There  are  distances  in  the  existence  which  is  hers  ; 
but  like  that  existence  they  are  spiritual ;  such  for  ex 
ample  as  exists  between  heaven  and  hell — a  vast  gulf 
of  impassable  width,  yet  so  near  are  they  who  stand  on 
its  two  shores  that  they  may  easily  converse.  Distance 
is  not  measured  there  by  the  passage  of  sound  or  of 


228  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY   THE    RIVER. 

light,  but  God  is  the  centre,  and  all  distances  depend  on 
spiritual  nearness  to  him. 

"  Something  similar  may  be  true  even  in  this  world, 
and  psychological  investigators  profess  to  believe  that 
there  is  no  distance  between  any  two  souls  even  in  the 
body.  I  am  much  inclined  to  think  so  too,  for  I  certain 
ly  cannot  so  strain  my  idea  of  soul,  or  spirit,  as  to  im 
agine  it  as  residing  in  a  brain  or  a  body.  These  senses 
and  features  of  mine  are  the  means  my  soul  has  of  com 
munion  with  the  world,  and  my  soul  has  some  way  of 
using  them,  and  when  I  say  <  I  am  here,'  I  mean  my 
body  is  here,  but  as  to  my  soul  its  locality  is  no  more 
here,  in  this  spot,  than  it  is  by  the  side  of  a  dear  one  far 
away,  or  in  heaven  with  the  sainted ;  in  other  words,  lo 
cality  is  not  one  of  its  properties." 

"  By-the-by,  Phil,  talking  of  spiritual  communion  re 
minds  me  of  a  story  my  old  friend  Mr.  Stewart  told  me, 
about  the  way  in  which  he  won  a  wife.  There  was  an  odd 
part  of  the  history  which  I  never  believed  exactly,  for 
the  old  man  was,  I  think,  a  little  cracked  on  that  point, 
but  it  is  worth  the  telling  nevertheless,  and  the  super 
natural  part  let  him  believe  who  chooses.  A  man  who 
was  swimming  all  night  long  by  the  side  of  a  wreck,  was 
in  no  condition  to  philosophize.  But  I'll  give  you  his 
story  in  his  own  words  as  nearly  as  I  can  recollect  them. 
I  have  his  manuscript  autobiography,  but  that  contains 
much  that  is  dull.  He  told  me  this  once  on  his  piazza, 
when  we  were  smoking  away  a  summer  evening. 


MR.  STEWART'S  STORY.  229 


ME.  STEWART'S    STORY. 

"  I  was  a  lonely  sort  of  a  bachelor,  and  had  never  yet 
known  what  young  men  style  '  the  passion.'  Of  passion  I 
had  enough  as  my  old  man  yonder  can  tell  you.  I  broke 
his  head  twice,  and  his  arm  once,  in  fits  of  it,  but  he  has 
always  seemed  to  love  me  all  the  better,  and  he  clings 
to  me  now,  very  much  as  two  pieces  of  the  same  ship 
cling  together  when  drifting  at  sea.  We  are  the  sole  sur 
vivors  of  a  thousand  wrecks ;  and  of  the  gallant  company 
that  sailed  with  us  years  ago,  no  other  one  is  left  afloat. 
I  had  been  a  sailor  from  boyhood,  and  when  I  was  twen 
ty-five  I  may  safely  say  no  man  was  more  fit  to  command 
a  vessel  among  the  mariners  of  England.  And  at  this 
time  my  old  uncle  died,  and  left  me  his  fortune.  I  had 
never  seen  him,  and  hardly  knew  of  his  existence,  but  I 
had  now  speaking  evidence  of  the  fact  that  he  had  existed, 
and  equally  good  proof  that  he  existed  no  longer.  I  was 
young,  strong  in  limb,  and  I  think  stout  in  heart,  and  I 
was  possessed  of  a  rental  of  some  thousands  per  annum. 
What  bar  was  there  to  my  enjoyment  of  the  goods  of 
life  ?  No  bar  indeed,  but  I  felt  sorely  the  lack  of  means 
of  enjoyment.  I  was  a  sailor  in  every  sense.  My  educa 
tion  was  tolerable,  and  I  had  read  some  books,  but  my 
tastes  were  nautical,  and  I  pined  on  shore.  You  will 
easily  understand  then  why  it  was  that  I  built  a  yacht, 
and  spent  most  of  my  time  on  her.  She  was  a  fine  craft, 
suited  to  my  taste  in  every  respect,  and  I  remember 


230  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    EIVER. 

with  a  sigh  now  the  happy  days  I  passed  in  the  Foam — 
I  used  to  read  considerably  in  my  cabin,  and  occasionally, 
indeed  weekly,  invited  parties  of  gentlemen  to  cruise 
with  me.  But  the  foot  of  a  lady  never  had  been  on  the 
deck  of  my  boat,  and  I  began  to  have  an  old  bachelor's 
pride  in  that  fact.  Yet,  I  confess  to  you  a  secret  longing 
for  some  sort  of  affection  different  from  any  I  had  here 
tofore  known,  and  a  restlessness  when  men  talked  of 
beautiful  women  in  my  presence. 

"  One  summer  evening  I  was  at  the  old  hall  in  which 
my  uncle  had  died,  and  was  entirely  alone.  Toward  sun 
set  I  was  surprised  while  over  a  book,  by  the  entrance  of 
a  gentleman,  hastily  announced,  and  giving  indications 
of  no  little  excitement. 

" '  Your  pardon,  sir,  for  my  unceremonious  entrance. 
My  horses  have  run  away  with  my  carriage,  and  dashed 
it  to  pieces  near  your  park-gate.  My  father  was  badly 
injured,  and  my  sister  is  now  watching  him.  I  have 
taken  the  liberty  to  ask  your  permission  to  bring  him  to 
your  residence.' 

"  Of  course  my  consent  was  instantly  given,  and  my 
own  carriage  despatched  to  the  park-gates. 

"  Mr.  Sinclair  was  a  gentleman  of  fortune,  residing 
about  forty  miles  from  me ;  and  his  father,  an  invalid, 
fifty  years  or  more  of  age,  was  on  his  way,  in  company 
with  his  son,  to  that  son's  house,  there  to  die  and  be 
buried.  They  were  strangers  to  me,  but  I  made  them 
welcome  to  my  house,  as  if  it  were  their  own,  and  insisted 
on  their  so  using  it, 


MB.  STEWART'S  STORY.  231 

"  Miss  Sinclair  was  the  first  woman  who  had  crossed 
my  door-stone  since  I  had  been  the  possessor  of  the  hall. 
And  well  might  she  have  been  loved  by  better  men 
than  I.  She  was  very  small  and  very  beautiful — of  the 
size  of  the  Yenus  which  all  men  worship  as  the  perfec 
tion  of  womanly  beauty,  but  having  a  soft  blue  eye 
strangely  shaded  by  jet-black  brows.  Her  face  presented 
the  contrast  of  purity  of  whiteness  in  the  complexion,  set 
off  by  raven  hair,  and  yet  that  hair  hanging  in  clustering 
curls,  unbound  by  comb  or  fillet,  and  the  whole  face  lit 
up  with  an  expression  of  gentle  trust,  complete  confidence 
either  in  all  around  her,  or  else  in  her  own  indomitable 
determination.  For  Mary  Sinclair  had  a  mind  of  her 
own,  and  a  far-seeing  one  too.  She  was  eighteen  then. 

"  Efer  father  died  in  my  house,  and  I  attended  the 
solemn  procession  that  bore  his  remains,  over  hill  and 
valley,  to  the  old  church  in  which  his  ancestors  were  laid. 
Once  after  that  I  called  on  the  family,  and  then  avoided 
them.  I  cannot  tell  you  what  was  the  cause  of  the  aver 
sion  I  had  to  entering  that  house,  or  approaching  the  in 
fluence  of  that  matchless  girl.  I  believe  that  I  feared 
the  magic  of  her  beauty,  and  was  impressed  with  my 
own  unworthiness  to  love  her  or  be  loved  by  her.  I  knew 
her  associates  were  of  the  noble,  the  educated,  the  refined, 
and  that  I  was  none  of  these.  What  then  could  I  ex 
pect  but  misery,  if  I  yielded  to  the  charm  of  that  exqui 
site  beauty,  or  the  graces  which  I  knew  were  in  her  soul  ? 

"  A  year  passed,  and  I  was  a  very  boy  in  my  continual 
thoughts  of  her ;  I  persuaded  myself  a  thousand  times 


232  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    RIVER. 

that  I  did  not  love  her,  and  a  thousand  times  determined 
to  prove  it  by  entering  her  presence.  At  length  I  threw 
myself  into  the  vortex  of  London  society,  and  was  lost  in 
the  whirlpool. 

"  One  evening,  at  a  crowded  assembly,  I  was  standing 
near  the  window  in  a  recess,  talking  with  a  lady,  when  I 
felt  a  strange  thrill.  I  cannot  describe  it  to  you,  but  its 
effect  was  visible  to  my  companion  who  said  instantly, 
'  You  are  unwell,  Mr.  Stewart,  are  you  not  ?'  '  Not  at 
all,  madam ;  why  did  you  think  so  ?'  l  Your  face  became 
suddenly  flushed,  and  your  hand  trembled  so  as  to  shake 
the  curtain.' 

"  It  was  inexplicable  to  myself,  but  I  was  startled  at 
the  next  instant  by  the  announcement  of  Mr.  and  Miss 
Sinclair.  I  turned  and  she  was  entering,  on  her  bro 
ther's  arm,  more  beautiful  than  ever.  How  I  escaped 
I  do  not  know,  but  I  did  so. 

"  Thrice  afterwards  I  was  warned  of  her  presence  in 
the  same  mysterious  way,  till  I  believed  that  there  was 
some  link  between  us  two  of  unknown  but  powerful 
character.  I  have  since  learned  to  believe  the  commu 
nion  of  spirit  with  spirit  sometimes  without  material  in 
tervention. 

"  I  heard  of  her  frequently  now  as  engaged  to  marry 
a  Mr.  Waller ;  a  man  whom  I  knew  well,  and  was  ready 
to  honor  as  worthy  of  her  love.  When  at  length  I  saw, 
as  I  supposed,  satisfactory  evidence  of  the  truth  of  the 
rumor,  I  left  London  and  met  them  no  more.  The 
same  rumors  followed  me  in  letters,  and  yet  I  was  mad 


233 

enough  to  dream  of  Mary  Sinclair,  until  months  after  I 
woke  to  the  sense  of  what  a  fool  I  had  been.  Convinced 
of  this,  I  went  on  board  my  yacht  about  mid-summer,  and 
for  four  weeks  never  set  foot  on  shore. 

"  One  sultry  day,  when  the  pitch  was  frying  on  deck 
in  the  hot  sun,  we  rolled  heavily  in  the  Bay  of  Biscay, 
and  I  passed  the  afternoon  under  a  sail  on  the  larboard 
quarter-deck.  Toward  evening,  I  fancied  a  storm  was 
brewing,  and  having  made  all  ready  for  it,  smoked  on  the 
taffrail  till  midnight,  and  then  turned  in.  Will  you  be 
lieve  me,  I  felt  that  strange  thrill  through  my  veins,  as  I 
lay  in  my  hammock,  and  awoke  with  it,  fifteen  seconds 
before  the  watch  on  deck  called  suddenly  to  the  man  at 
the  wheel,  '  Port — port  your  helm  !  a  sail  on  the  lea-bow. 
Steady !  so  ! ' 

"  I  was  on  deck  in  an  instant,  and  saw  that  a  stiff  breeze 
was  blowing,  and  a  small  schooner,  showing  no  lights,  had 
crossed  our  fore -foot  within  a  pistol-shot,  and  was  now 
bearing  up  to  the  north-west.  The  sky  was  cloudy  and 
dark,  but  the  breeze  was  very  steady ;  and  I  went  below 
again,  and  after  endeavoring  vainly  to  explain  the  emo 
tion  I  had  felt  in  any  reasonable  way,  I  at  length  fell 
asleep,  and  the  rocking  of  my  vessel,  as  she  flew  before 
the  wind,  gave  just  motion  enough  to  my  hammock  to 
lull  me  into  sound  slumber.  But  I  dreamed  all  night 
of  Mary  Sinclair.  I  dreamed  of  her,  but  it  was  in  un 
pleasant  dreams.  I  saw  her  standing  on  the  deck  of  the 
Foam,  and  as  I  advanced  toward  her,  the  form  of  Waller 
would  interpose.  I  would  fancy,  at  times,  that  my  arms 


234          THE  OLD  HOUSE  BY  THE  RIVER. 

were  around  her,  and  her  form  was  resting  against  my 
side,  and  her  head  lay  on  my  shoulder ;  and  then,  by  the 
strange  mutations  of  dreams,  it  was  not  I,  but  Waller, 
that  was  thus  holding  her ;  and  I  was  chained  to  a  post, 
looking  at  them,  and  she  would  kiss  him,  and  again  the 
kiss  would  seem  to  be  burning  on  my  lips.  The  morning 
found  me  wide  awake,  reasoning  myself  out  of  my  fancies. 
By  noon  I  had  enough  to  do.  The  ocean  was  roused. 
A  tempest  was  out  on  the  sea,  and  the  Foam  went  be 
fore  it. 

«  Night  came  down  gloomily.     The  very  blackness  of 
darkness  was  on  the  water  as  we  flew  before  that  terrific 
blast.     I  was  on  deck,  lashed  to  the  wheel,  by  which  I 
stood,  with  a  knife  within  reach  to  cut  the  lashing,  if 
necessary.     We  had  but  a  rag  of  sail  on  her,  and  yet  she 
moved  more  like  a  bird  than  like  a  boat,  from  wave  to 
wave.     Again  and  again  a  blue  wave  went  over  us,  but 
she  came  up  like  a  duck,  and  shook  off  the  water,  and 
dashed  on.     Now  she  staggered  as  a  blow  was  struck  on 
the  weather  bow  that  might  have  staved  a  man-of-war, 
but  kept  gallantly  on;  and  now  she  rolled  heavily  and 
slowly,  but  never  abated  the  swift  flight  toward  shore. 
It  was  midnight  when  the  wind  was  highest.     The  howl 
ing  of  the  cordage  was  demoniacal.     Now  a  scream,  now 
a  shriek,  now  a  wail,  and  now  a  laugh  of  mocking  mad 
ness.     On,  on  we  flew.     I  looked  up,  and  turned  quite 
around  the  whole  horizon,  but  could  see  no  sky,  no  sea, 
no  cloud— all  was  blackness.     At  that  moment  I  felt 
again  that  strange  thrill,  and  at  the  instant,  fancied  a 


235 

denser  blackness  ahead ;  and  the  next,  with  a  crash  and 
a  plunge,  the  Foam  was  gone  !  Down  went  my  gallant 
boat,  and  with  her  another  vessel,  unseen  in  the  black 
night.  The  wheel  to  which  I  had  been  lashed  had  bro 
ken  loose,  and  gone  over  with  me  before  she  sank.  It 
was  heavy,  and  I  cut  it  away;  and  seizing  a  spar,  went 
down  in  the  deep  sea  above  my  boat.  As  I  came  up  to 
the  surface,  a  hand  grasped  my  coat.  I  seized  it,  and  a 
thrill  of  agony  shot  through  me  as  I  recognized  the  deli 
cate  fingers  of  a  woman.  I  drew  her  to  me,  and  lashed 
her  to  the  spar  by  my  side ;  and  so,. in -the  black  night, 
we  'two  alone  floated  away  over  the  stormy  ocean. 

"  My  companion  was  senseless — for  aught  I  knew,  dead. 
A  thousand  emotions  passed  through  my  mind  in  the 
next  five  minutes.  Who  was  my  companion  on  that 
slight  spar  ?  What  was  the  vessel  I  had  sunk  ?  Was  I 
with  only  the  body  of  a  human  being,  or  was  there  a 
spark  of  life  left  ?  and  how  could  I  fan  it  to  a  flame  ? 
Would  it  not  be  better  to  let  her  sink  than  float  off  with 
me,  thus  alone  to  starve  or  die  of  thirst  in  agony  ? 
**  "  I  chafed  her  hands,  her  forehead,  her  shoulders.  In 
the  dense  darkness  I  could  not  see  a  feature  of  her  face, 
nor  tell  if  she  were  young  or  old — scarcely  whether  white 
or  black.  The  silence  on  the  sea  was  fearful.  So  long 
as  I  had  been  on  the  deck  of  my  boat,  the  whistling 
through  the  ropes  and  around  the  spars  had  made  con 
tinual  sounds ;  but  now  I  heard  nothing  but  the  occa 
sional  sprinkling  of  the  spray,  the  dash  of  a  foam  cap,  or 
the  heavy  sound  of  the  wind  pressing  on  my  ears. 


236  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    RIVER. 

"  At  length  she  moved  her  hand  feebly  in  mine.  How 
my  heart  leaped  at  that  slight  evidence  that  I  was  not 
alone  in  the  wild  ocean — I  redoubled  my  exertions.  I 
passed  one  of  her  arms  over  my  neck  to  keep  it  out  of  the 
water  while  I  chafed  the  other  hand  with  both  of  mine. 
I  felt  the  clasp  of  that  arm  around  my  neck  tighten,  and 
I  bowed  my  head  toward  hers.  She  drew  me  close  to 
her  and  laid  her  cheek  against  mine.  I  let  it  rest  there 
— it  might  warm  hers,  and  so  help  to  give  her  life.  Then 
she  nestled  closely  in  my  bosom  and  whispered,  '  Thank 
you.'  Why  did  my  brain  so  wildly  throb  in  my  head  at 
that  whispered  sentence  ?  She  knew  not  where  she  was  ; 
that  was  clear.  Her  mind  was  wandering.  At  that  in 
stant  the  end  of  the  spar  struck  some  heavy  object,  and 
we  were  dashed  by  a  huge  wave  over  it,  and  to  my  joy 
were  left  on  a  floating  deck.  I  cut  the  lashings  from  the 
spar  and  fastened  my  companion  and  myself  to  a  part  of 
the  new  raft  or  wreck,  I  knew  not  which,  and  all  the  time 
that  arm  was  wound  around  my  neck  and  rigid  as  if  in 
death.  Now  came  the  low  wild  wail  of  the  wind  that  pre 
cedes  the  breaking  of  the  storm.  The  air  seemed  fill%£ 
with  viewless  spirits  mournfully  singing  and  sighing.  I 
had  conceived  a  strange  mad  affection  for  my  companion 
of  that  night.  I  never  thought  of  her  as  anything  but  a 
human  being.  It  was  that  humanity,  that  dear  likeness 
of  life,  that  endeared  her  to  me.  I  wound  my  arms 
around  her,  and  drew  her  close  to  my  heart,  and  bowed 
my  head  over  her,  and  in  the  wildness  of  the  moment  I 
pressed  my  lips  to  hers  in  a  long,  passionate  kiss  of  in- 


MR.  STEWART'S  STORY.  237 

tense  love  and  agony.  That  kiss  again  unlocked  the 
prison  of  her  soul.  She  gave  it  back,  and  murmuring 
some  name  of  endearment,  wound  both  arms  around  my 
neck,  and  laying  her  head  on  my  shoulder  with  her  fore 
head  pressed  against  my  cheek,  fell  into  a  calm  slumber. 
That  kiss  burns  on  my  lips  this  hour.  Half  a  century  of 
the  cold  kisses  of  the  world  has  not  sufficed  to  chill  its 
influence.  It  thrills  me  now  as  then  !  It  was  madness, 
wild  idol- worship  of  the  form  God  gave  us  in  the  image 
of  himself  which  in  that  hour  I  adored  as  never  God  !  I 
feel  the  unearthly  joy  again  to-day,  as  I  remember  the 
clasp  of  those  unknown  arms,  and  the  soft  pressure  of 
that  forehead.  I  knew  not,  I  cared  not,  if  she  were  old 
and  haggard,  or  young  and  fair.  I  only  knew  and  re 
joiced  with  joy  untold  that  she  was  human,  mortal,  of 
my  own  kin  by  the  great  Father  of  our  race. 

"  It  was  a  night  of  thoughts  and  emotions  and  phant 
asms  that  can  never  be  described.  Morning  dawned 
grayly.  The  first  faint  gleam  of  light  that  showed  me  a 
driving  cloud  above  my  head,  was  welcomed  with  a  shud 
der.  I  hated  light — I  wanted  only  to  float  on,  on,  over 
that  heaving  ocean,  with  that  form  clinging  to  me,  and 
my  arms  around  it,  and  my  lips  ever  and  anon  pressed  to 
the  passionless  lips  of  the  heavy  sleeper.  I  asked  no 
light.  It  was  an  intruder  on  my  domain,  and  would  drive 
her  from  my  embrace.  I  was  mad. 

"  But  as  I  saw  the  face  of  my  companion  gradually 
revealed  in  the  dawning  tight,  as  my  eyes  began  to  make 
out  one  by  one  the  features,  and  at  length  the  terrible 


238  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    RIVER. 

truth  came  slowly  burning  into  my  brain,  I  moaned 
aloud  in  agony,  '  Grod  of  heaven,  she  is  dead!'  And  it 
was  Mary  Sinclair ! 

"  But  she  was  not  dead. 

"  We  floated  all  day  long  on  the  sea,  and  at  midnight 
of  the  next  night  I  hailed  a  ship  and  they  took  us  off. 
Every  man  from  the  Foam  and  the  other  vessel  was  saved 
with  one  exception.  The  other  vessel  was  the  Fairy,  a 
schooner-rigged  yacht,  belonging  to  a  friend  of  Miss  Sin 
clair,  with  whom  she  and  her  brother  and  a  party  of  la 
dies  and  gentlemen  had  started  but  three  days  previously 
for  a  week's  cruise.  I  need  not  tell  you  how  I  explained 
that  strange  thrill  as  the  schooner  crossed  our  bow  the 
night  before  the  collision,  and  which  I  felt  again  at  the 
moment  of  the  crash,  nor  what  interpretation  I  gave  to 
the  wild  tumult  of  emotions  all  that  long  night. 

"  I  married  Mary  Sinclair,  and  I  buried  her  thirty 
years  afterward,  and  I  sometimes  have  the  same  evidence 
of  her  presence  now  that  I  used  to  have  when  she  lived 
on  the  same  earth  with  me." 

"  Not  a  bad  story,  that,"  said  Willis,  rising  and  light 
ing  a  candle.  Then  standing  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  and  his  back  to  the  mouldering  fire  in  the  grate, 
he  mused  for  five  minutes,  while  both  of  us  were  perfectly 
silent.  At  length  lifting  his  eyebrows,  and  smiling 
somewhat  cautiously,  as  if  he  feared  the  smile  might  be 
too  apparent,  he  said,  in  a  pleasant  tone  of  cheerfulness, 

"  Believe  it,  Phil — believe  it,      I've  had   a  thousand 


WIFE-HUNTING.  239 

proofs  of  it.  And  why  not  ?  If  we  may  commune  when 
freed  from  the  body,  by  the  swift  wings  and  subtle  intel 
ligence  of  thought,  why  not  as  well  when  the  clay  detains 
us  ?  The  soul  is  superior  to  the  clay." 

"  I'll  not  dispute  it  with  you,  Joe.  Doubtless  there  is 
much  truth  in  it,  and,  as  in  all  our  speculation  about  the 
immaterial,  much  of  poetry  that  is  not  truth." 

Joe  walked  to  the  window  and  looked  out. 

"  Speaking  of  an  odd  way  to  get  a  wife,  what  a  glorious 
night  it  would  be  to  hunt  for  one,"  said  he  at  length, 
"  especially  if  one  could  win  such  a  one  as  our  old  friend 
did.  Suppose  we  try  it,  Phil ;"  and  he  turned  and  looked 
into  my  face  with  a  smile. 

"Remind  me  of  the  history  first,  and  we'll  discuss 
the  propriety  of  the  experiment  afterward." 

"Fred  Van  Brunt." 

"  Ah,  yes;  and  a  good  and  beautiful  wife,  too." 

It  was  a  terribly  cold  night.  The  highland  wind  was 
piercing,  but  the  sky  was  mockingly  clear.  Old  men 
said  they  had  never  known  so  cold  a  night  in  the  valley, 
and  the  river  closed  so  tight  that  they  crossed  it  with 
horses  the  next  morning.  It  had  snowed  three  days  be 
fore  some  two  feet  deep,  and  the  sleighing  was  capital ; 
but  he  must  have  courage  who  would  venture  into  a 
sleigh  that  night.  And  so  had  Fred  Van  Brunt. 

He  was  rolled  up  in  robes  so  that  you  could  see  but 
the  tip  of  his  nose,  and  that  was  occasionally  plunged 
below  the  furs  that  were  around  him.  His  hands  alone 
were  not  encased  in  fur ;  on  them  he  had  only  a  pair  of 


240  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    RIVER. 

light  kid  gloves,  allowing  his  fingers  to  be  perfectly  flex 
ible  while  he  managed  the  reins.  Two  of  the  most  mag 
nificent,  blacks  to  be  found  in  America,  were  before  his 
sleigh,  and  dashed  along  the  road  at  a  splendid  pace. 
There  were  no  bells  on  them  :  the  motion  of  the  sleigh 
was  rapid  but  noiseless ;  and  had  it  been  the  evening  be 
fore  Christmas,  instead  *of  Christmas  evening,  a  child 
might  have  fancied  the  holy  Nicholas  himself  passing  by. 
But  when  his  horses  suddenly  sheered  from  the  track, 
and  he  sprang  to  his  feet,  grasping  the  reins  more  firmly, 
you  could  have  seen  that  he  was  a  veritable  specimen  of 
humanity,  aged  about  nineteen ;  and  from  his  eye  you 
might  possibly  have  supposed  that  he  was  in  good  spirits. 
For  he  was,  and  his  eye  should  have  shown  it. 

Fred  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  it  was  well  for  him  that 
he  did,  for  the  next  instant  he  sprang  to  the  ground  as 
his  sleigh  went  over  under  the  fence,  and  the  horses, 
noble  fellows,  stopped  instantly.  Very  naturally,  too, 
before  looking  at  the  effects  of  his  mishap,  he  looked  at 
the  cause,  and  was  not  a  little  astonished  at  finding,  in 
the  middle  of  the  track,  a  bundle  of  rags,  containing  a 
child,  sound  asleep.  Now  Fred  was  a  boy  of  rapid  thought, 
and  an  idea  came  instantly  into  his  brain,  that  this  child 
belonged  to  a  woman  whom  he  had  met  on  the  road 
about  a  mile  back,  and  wondered  at  seeing  her  in  such 
a  cold  night.  No  sooner,  therefore,  did  he  see  the  child, 
than  he  turned  about,  righted  his  sleigh,  shook  the  snow 
out  of  the  robes,  and  rolled  the  child  up  in  one,  placed 
it  in  the  bottom  of  his  cutter,  and,  springing  in,  turned 


WIFE-HUNTING.  241 

his  horses'  heads  back  up  the  road,  and  in  about  five 
minutes  had  returned  a  mile  toward  home.  But  the 
woman  was  not  there,  so  he  drove  on,  and  was  approach 
ing  the  avenue-gate  when  he  caught  sight  of  a  dark  ob 
ject  in  an  angle  of  the  rail-fence  on  the  road-side.  Rein 
ing  up  instantly,  he  approached  it,  and  was  again  sur 
prised  at  finding  a  resemblance  of  humanity  in  rags.  But 
it  was  only  a  resemblance,  the  clay  mould,  wherefrom  the 
vivid  likeness,  the  essence  of  humanity,  life,  had  gone. 
The  form  of  a  woman  was  there,  but  she  who  had  pos 
sessed  the  form  was  not.  Throwing  back  the  folds  of  a 
tattered  shawl  that  enveloped  her  shoulders  and  head,  he 
was  startled  at  the  marvellous  beauty  of  her  face.  A 
calm  broad  forehead  was  shaded  by  raven  hair,  and  her 
thin  features  were  chiselled  with  all  the  lines  of  aristo 
cratic  beauty.  About  her  mouth  a  smile  lingered,  as  if 
an  angel  had  kissed  her  before  her  lips  grew  rigid. 

Astonished,  but  not  at  all  discomposed,  for  Fred  was 
cool-headed,  he  lifted  the  fragile  form  of  the  dead 
woman  in  his  arms,  and  laid  it  gently  in  his  sleigh,  cov 
ering  it  up  with  the  robes  that  had  been  wrapped  around 
himself,  and  drove  rapidly  homeward.  As  he  passed  the 
avenue-gate  the  old  porter  wondered  what  Mr.  Fred  had 
been  filling  his  sleigh  with,  and  as  he  reached  the  front 
of  the  house,  a  matronly  lady,  accompanied  by  a  young 
girl  of  rare  beauty,  came  hurriedly  to  the  door.  The 
latter  lady  spoke  first. 

"  What  now,  Fred  ?  Where  are  the  ladies  ?  Couldn't 
11 


24'2  TUB    OLD    HOUSK    BY    THE    ttlVEK. 

they  come  ?     What  brings  you  back  so   soon  ?     Why 
didn't  you  stay  ?     Are  they  gone  out  ?" 

"  Softly,  softly,  Nelly ;    I  have  a  queer    load    here. 
Life  and  death  strangely  mixed.     You  had  better  go 


So,  advancing  to  his  mother,  with  the  child  in  his 
arms,  he  explained  the  matter  to  her,  and  under  her 
directions  the  body  of  the  mother — for  such  she  doubtless 
was — was  conveyed  to  a  room,  and  the  child  sent  to  the 
nursery  for  attention. 

In  the  pocket  of  the  ragged  dress,  which  was  almost 
the  only  covering  to  the  body  of  the  dead  woman,  was 
found  a  small  leather  wallet,  containing  only  two  pieces 
of  paper,  on  one  of  which  was  written  in  a  delicate  and 
beautiful  female  hand,  the  commencement  of  a  letter, 
thus :  "  Dear  my  -father,  when  this  reaches  your  hand,  if 

it  ever  does,  I "  and  that  was  all.     On  the  other 

paper  was  the  certificate  of  the  marriage  of  Mary  Eston 

and  Philip  Eston,  in  the  parish  church  of ,  in  the 

county ,  Ireland,  by  the  priest  of  the  parish.     An 

inquest,  held  the  next  day,  elicited  the  facts,  that  the 
mother  had  been  seen  the  day  previous  carrying  her  child 
in  her  arms,  and  it  was  supposed  that  she  was  insane 
from  the  peculiar  manner  in  which  she  looked  at  passers- 
by,  as  if  afraid  that  they  intended  to  harm  her  or  her 
child.  The  most  rational  conclusion  seemed  to  be,  that 
she  had  wandered  on  in  that  state  of  mind  until  night 
overtook  her,  and  then,  with  the  thought  thus  to  save 
her  child's  life,  she  had  laid  her  down  in  the  road,  and 


WIFE-HUNTING.  243 

pushed  on  to  find  shelter  and  send  some  one  to  the  child 
whom  she,  in  her  weakness,  could  no  longer  carry.  She 
had  laid  her  in  the  road,  doubtless,  that  she  might  be 
found  and  saved  should  any  one  pass.  Her  plan  suc 
ceeded,  as  has  been  seen. 

The  mother's  body  lay  in  the  grand  room  of  the  old 
mansion.  I  have  heard  those  who  saw  it  say  that  there 
was  never  seen  a  more  beautiful  form  in  the  robes  of  the 
grave.  She  could  not  have  been  more  than  twenty  years 
of  age,  and  the  youth  and  beauty  of  the  dead  girl  lent  a 
hideousness  to  her  abject  poverty.  Long,  dark  eyelashes 
contrasted  strangely  with  the  marble  complexion  of  the 
cheek  on  which  they  lay,  while  the  same  smile,  of  which 
Fred  had  spoken  at  the  first,  was  still  on  her  faultless 
lip.  She  was  buried  in  the  family  vault,  where  the  Van 
Brunts  were  wont,  generation  after  generation,  to  take 
their  last  repose;  and  Fred,  who  had  fallen  deeply  in 
love  with  her  marvellous  beauty,  insisted  on  adding  to 
the  list  of  names,  already  carved  on  the  door-post,  that 
of  Mary  Eston.  His  mother  adopted  the  child,  now 
nearly  two  years  old,  and  under  her  care  she  grew  up  as 
one  of  the  family. 

Mary  Eston's  childhood  was  as  beautiful  as  a  dream. 
Her  eye  was  the  very  soul  of  pure  loveliness,  and  her 
forehead  had  never  a  darker  shade  than  was  thrown  there 
by  the  tresses  that  clustered  over  it.  A  thousand  mem 
ories  of  her  childhood  cling  around  me  now.  I  knew 
it  well,  and  when  I  left,  for  a  few  years,  the  valley  in 
which  I  was  born  and  lived  till  I  was  sent  to  travel. 


244  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    RIVER. 

she  was  of  surpassing  beauty.  Tall  and  erect,  with  a 
mould  of  limb  that  was  matchless,  and  features  that  were 
like  the  features  of  the  seraphs  in  the  paintings  of  the 
old  masters.  Her  face  was  one  of  those  which  wins  you 
to  gaze  and  gaze  until  you  are  lost  in  wonderment  at  the 
exquisite  perfection  of  every  part.  And  yet  it  would 
have  puzzled  you  to  define  that  beauty.  Her  forehead 
was  neither  very  broad  nor  high.  Her  complexion  was 
not  brown  nor  yet  alabaster.  Her  lips  were  red,  but 
not  strangely  or  uncommonly  so.  Her  eyes,  indeed, 
were  beautiful.  You  were  lost  if  you  looked  into  their 
depths.  It  was  in  them,  perhaps,  after  all,  that  the 
great  attractiveness  of  her  face  lay.  You  saw  in  them  a 
pride,  a  sort  of  consciousness  of  nobility  of  birth,  or  a 
hereditary  right  to  homage,  yet  so  softened  as  you  gazed, 
that  it  was  rather  the  mournful  look  of  a  princess  dream 
ing  of  a  lost  throne.  She  was  not  proud  nor  haughty. 
Her  face  was  a  joy  to  all  the  country.  The  children 
paused  in  their  play  if  she  passed  by,  to  catch  one  of 
those  sunshiny  smiles  that  were  a  gladness  to  their 
young  hearts.  Old  men  turned  to  gaze  after  her,  and 
blessed  her  for  the  gentle,  loving  look  with  which  she 
bowed  to  them,  and  young  men  loved  her.  All  loved 
her.  No  one  refused  to  give  the  homage  of  pure  love  to 
Mary  Eston.  It  is  a  sublime  thing  this  human  love.  It 
is  star-like  in  its  calm  radiance  above  all  clouds,  sky-like 
in  its  breadth  and  depth,  and  immovable  all  contain 
ing  beauty. 

Fred   remained   unmarried   fifteen  years,   and  a  few 


WIFE-HUNTING.  245 

years  ago  you  would  have  been  unable  to  fix  his  age  be 
tween  twenty-five  and  forty,  but  you  would  have  first  said 
twenty-five.  Mary  Eston,  after  refusing  a  dozen  offers, 
frankly  confessed  to  Mrs.  Van  Brunt  that  she  loved  Fred, 
and  he  had  been  too  stupid  to  perceive  it,  although,  poor 
fellow,  he  vowed  he  had  been  dying  for  love  of  her  since 
he  had  seen  her  mother's  beautiful  face.  The  scene 
would  describe  very  well,  but  I  pass  it.  The  result  was 
as  might  have  been  anticipated,  and  I  believe  Van  Brunt 
is  now  hunting  through  Ireland  for  his  wife's  ancestry. 
I  hope  he  may  find  them. 

But  I  have  taken  more  time  in  recounting  this  story 
than  we  devoted  to  it  then.  After  a  brief  allusion  to  the 
history,  Joe  turned  toward  the  table  on  which  he  had 
placed  his  candle,  and  then  rang  for  Anthony. 

"  The  old  fellow  always  outsits  us,"  said  he.  "  I  must 
send  him  to  bed.  It  is  nearly  midnight." 

"  But,  Joe,  I  thought  we  were  to  go  out  and  try  our 
luck  at  finding  wives." 

"  If  you  say  so,  it's  agreed.  Anthony,  tell  Stephen  to 
have  the  horses  at  the  door  in  four  minutes.  Wrap  up 
well,  Phil,  for  by  Jove  you  shall  have  a  night  of  it, 
since  you  wish  it." 

In  ten  minutes  we  were  on  the  road  under  a  fine  moon, 
and  in  an  hour,  after  an  exhilarating  drive,  we  had  reached 
a  country  village  and  an  inn  at  which  we  had  before  found 
tolerably  good  provender.  We  here  discussed  a  cup  of 
coffee  and  a  broiled  chicken,  and  a  passage  from  a  new 


246  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY   THE    RIVER. 

book,  which  had  been  our  last  topic  of  conversation  in 
the  sleigh. 

"  The  beautiful  are  never  desolate, 
But  some  one  alway  loves  them — God  or  man. 
If  man  abandons,  God  himself  takes  them." 

There  is  poetry  and  truth  mingled  in  the  remark,  al 
though  perhaps  it  may  not  be  exactly  truth,  as  the  Vriter 
designed  it  to  be  understood.  God  loves  not  the  beau 
tiful  more  than  others ;  but,  by  some  strange  design  of 
his  Providence,  it  appears  that  when  man  abandons,  He 
does  often  take  them. 

Perhaps  the  lovely  are  less  used  to  coldness,  and  more 
accustomed  to  gentle  care,  so  that  desolation  is  too  great 
a  burden.  There  is  a  stern  pride  in  some  human  hearts, 
that  helps  those  hearts  to  bear  wrong  without  yielding, 
and  to  stand  erect  under  heavy  loads  of  misery;  and,  in 
my  experience,  it  has :  always  been  true  that  such  stout 
hearts  were  in  the  end  crushed  by  some  overwhelming 
agony  for  which  they  were  wholly  unprepared,  and  before 
which  they  were  too  proud  to  bow. 

We  slept  soundly,  and  breakfasted  at  nine  o'clock — 
our  landlady  sat  down  with  us,  a  pleasant,  pretty,  country 
girl,  whose  husband  had  a  small  capital  invested  in  his 
hostelry.  The  conversation  turned  to  the  same  subject 
as  at  our  late  supper  the  night  before,  and  on  my  quoting 
the  passage  again,  the  blue  eye  of  the  good  girl  at  the 
head  of  the  table  filled  with  tears,  and  we  looked  at  her 
for  an  explanation  of  her  emotion. 

"  Ah  Sir,"  said  she,  in  somewhat  simple,  yet  pure  Ian- 


WIFE-HUNTING.  247 

guage,  "  Ah  Sir,  I  think  ye're  right  about  it.  God  al- 
wajs  takes  them  when  men  give  them  up.  There  was 
Alice  Brown.  They  say  she  is  dying  to-day  sir.  She 
was  left  by  the  only  man  she  cared  to  love,  and  is  going  to 
God."  And  our  poor  hostess  fairly  sobbed. 

At  length  I  gathered  the  particulars  of  the  brief  story. 

Alice  Brown  was  the  fairest  and  the  fairyest  girl  in  all 
the  country.  Her  voice  was  as  musical  as  the  gush  of 
the  spring  in  her  widowed  mother's  garden,  and  in  truth 
Alice  learned  to  carol  gay  songs  as  she  sat  on  the  bank 
by  the  spring  side,  and  looked  up  into  the  serene  sky. 
Her  hair  was  dark,  and  hung  in  those  glorious  tresses 
that  the  wind  always  falls  in  love  with,  and  her  eye  had 
borrowed  its  beauty  from  heaven.  All  loved  her,  for 
she  loved  all.  She  was  the  village  pet,  and  who  does  not 
know  what  that  means  ?  Almost  every  country  village 
has  a  pet,  but  no  other  had  such  an  one  as  she.  Her  form 
was  dream-like,  so  beautiful  was  it ;  and  when  it  passed 
you  could  not  believe  that  you  had  seen  such  a  perfect 
human  being.  That  she  was  the  light  of  her  mother's 
cottage,  I  need  not  say ;  and  every  mother  will  believe 
that  she  was  the  light  as  well  of  her  old  heart.  They 
beat  warmly  together,  those  two  gentle  hearts,  and  ever 
in  unison.  All  this  said  our  hostess. 

Alice  loved  one,  her  equal  in  fortune  or  in  poverty, 
and  as  most  persons  thought,  worthy  of  her  love.  At  all 
events,  Harry  was  a  noble  fellow,  and  ambitious,  and  had 
only  one  check  to  his  ambition,  which  was  his  love  for 
Alice  Brown.  They  had  been  children  together,  and  had 


248  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    RIVER. 

grown  to  youth  and  strength,  as  well  of  body  as  of  love, 
side  by  side. 

But  Harry  was  not  content  with  the  quiet  life  he  led 
in  the  village,  and  at  length  his  ambition  conquered,  and 
he  left  for  the  sea.  Then  came  days  and  years  of  trial. 
Sometimes  they  heard  of  him,  but  not  often,  and  it  was 
whispered  about  that  he  had  forgotten  his  old  love — and 
Alice  grew  pale,  and  one  stormy  night  in  the  early  au 
tumn,  she  took  a  severe  cold  in  crossing  the  street  to 
the  post-office  after  the  mail  had  arrived,  and  then 
slowly  faded. 

Some  said  she  had  a  letter  that  night,  and  that  it  was 
its  contents  that  changed  her  so  much.  However  that 
might  be,  it  was  reported  soon  after,  that  Harry  was  in  a 
wild  way  of  dissipation,  and  at  length  came  the  terrible 
news  of  his  loss  at  sea. 

Alice  bore  it  calmly,  but  its  effects  were  soon  visible, 
and  the  heavenly  eye  grew  bluer  and  deeper,  and  holier, 
and  in  the  dreary  winter  time  they  thought  she  was 
dying. 

"  Mother,"  said  she,  "  I  thought  not  to  have  saddened 
you  by  going  first,  but  so  it  is.  God  be  my  witness,  I 
will  come  to  you  if  I  can ;  and  in  the  lonesome  twilight 
I  will  sit  beside  you,  and  when  you  sleep  I  will  lie  down 
too,  and  wind  my  arms  around  you.  I  did  not  think  to 
die  thus  either, — but  it's  not  so  very  hard.  In  the  morn 
ing,  mother,  we  shall  know  why  God  made  the  night  so 
dark." 

And  many  other  such  kind  and  gentle  words  they  told 


WIFE-HUNTING.  249 

us  of  her  saying  to  her  old  mother  day  by  day,  as  she  lay 
ill  in  the  cottage  down  the  street. 

Before  our  horses  were  ready,  I  missed  Willis  from 
the  house,  but  thought  little  of  his  absence  while  I  pon 
dered  on  the  story  I  had  heard.  Such  village  histories  I 
had  known,  and  I  could  well  imagine  the  end.  I  had,  in 
fact,  called  up  before  me  all  the  scenery  of  the  death  and 
burial  of  the  sweet  girl,  whose  history  had  made  such  an 
impression  on  us.  I  pressed  my  face  against  the  window 
and  looked  out,  and,  for  a  half-hour,  watched  the  driving 
snow,  all  the  time  imagining  a  sad  end  to  her  story. 

"Why  Phil,  I  say,  Phil,  come  with  me,  my  boy. 
Here's  a  glorious  scene  for  us,  worth  coming  a  thousand 
miles  to  see." 

I  started  from  my  reverie,  and  looked  around  at  the 
face  of  Joe  Willis.  It  was  fairly  radiant  with  pleasure. 

"  Come  down  the  street  with  me,  Phil.  Alice  Brown's 
lover  has  come  back  over  the  sea,  and  I  was  there  just 
too  late  to  witness  the  meeting ;  but  the  girl  is  cured  to 
a  certainty.  There's  no  mistaking  the  look  of  her  face 
now !" 

"  And  if  I  might  be  so  bold,  Joe,  what  took  you  to  the 
Widow  Brown's  ?" 

"  Joe  did  not  deign  me  any  answer,  but  I  knew  his 
good  heart,  and  that  he  had  gone  to  offer  consolation  and 
aid  to  a  lonely  house,  which  he  chanced  to  find  full  of 

joy- 
He  dragged  me  along,  and  nothing  loth  I  followed  his 
lead,  and  in  a  few  minutes,  stood  within  the  door  of  the 
11* 


250  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    RIVER. 

cottage.  The  pale  face  of  the  sick  girl  was  lighted  up 
with  serene  joy.  The  mother  was  full  of  gladness,  her 
old  heart  well-nigh  breaking  with  its  fulness. 

"Ah  Sir!"  she  exclaimed  as  we  entered,  "Ah  Sir, 
ye've  brought  a  friend  to  the  house  of  rejoicing,  and  it's 
welcome  he  is,  and  welcome  any  one  to  a  house  like  this. 
We've  had  so  much  of  grieving  and  sorrowing,  that  we 
want  to  share  our  joying  with  all  the  world.  You  see, 
sir,  Henry  has  been  telling  us  that  he  has  always  loved 
Alice,  and  never  thought  of  leaving  her ;  and  the  letter 
she  got  wasn't  from  him  at  all,  but  from  Stephen  Grore, 
the  man  she  said  no  to  three  years  ago,  and  he  sent 
the  bad  stories  about  Henry,  and  Alice  didn't  know  Hen 
ry's  writing,  and  Stephen  burned  his  letters  all  up.  But 
Stephen  was  drowned,  and  Henry  wasn't,  and  he  has 
been  wandering  the  world  over  since  then." 

The  sailor,  a  fine-looking  fellow,  stood  near  the  win 
dow,  listening  to  Joe  Willis,  who  was  whispering  in  his 
ear,  and  who  at  length  advanced  to  the  widow  and  Alice, 
and  addressed  them : 

"  Mrs.  Brown,  I  have  a  very  pleasant  little  house  on 
the  bank  of  the  river,  which  will  suit  you  well,  and  be 
pleasanter  than  this  village,  by  far.  My  friend,  Mr. 
Phillips,  and  myself,  have  a  yacht,  which  requires  a  care 
ful  steady  man  for  keeper  and  sailing-master.  Once  in 
awhile  we  take  a  cruise,  and  then  we  shall  want  him 
with  us.  But  we  are  not  apt  to  be  away  many  weeks  at 
a  time ;  and  Miss  Alice  will  be  better  able  to  spare  him 
for  our  short  voyages  than  to  go  to  sea  again.  What  do 


WIFE-HUNTING.  251 

you  think  of  my  plan,  Mrs.  Brown  ?  Will  Henry  do  for 
our  boat-keeper  ?  and  will  you  and  Alice  keep  house  for 
him  in  the  little  house  ?" 

The  hue  of  health  had  begun  to  return  to  Alice 
Brown's  cheek  when  Willis  began  to  speak,  and  it  was  a 
deep  blush  of  crimson  before  he  ceased,  only  growing 
pale  for  a  moment,  as  he  spoke  of  Henry's  going  to  sea 
again.  It  was  all  arranged  in  an  hour,  and  we  returned 
to  the  inn ;  and  as  we  drove  rapidly  homeward,  Joe,  full 
of  the  joy  proceeding  from  the  joy  conferred  on  others, 
sang  verses  from  old  songs  all  the  way. 

"  I  say,  Joe,  what  do  you  think  of  going  out  wife- 
hunting  at  midnight  ?" 

"  A  capital  idea,  Phil,  that  was ;  and  I  propose  we  try 
it  again  some  day  ? 

"  Phil,  what  are  you  thinking  of?" 

"'The  beautiful  are  never  desolate,  for  some  one 
always  loves  them.'  Let  the  quotation  end  there  this 
time,  Joe." 

One  thing  we  did  get  by  that  adventure,  and  that  was 
a  capital  boat-keeper. 


XIV. 


C|f* 


friend, 


NO  calm  in  all  the  world  is  so  profound  and  holy  as 
that  which  rests  in  the  soul  on  a  summer  Sabbath 
morning  in  the  country.  Everything  partakes  of  it. 
The  birds  never  sing  loudly ;  the  winds  never  wail  harshly ; 
the  trees  shake  their  branches  quietly,  and  with  a  musical 
murmur.  The  sky  seems  near  the  earth,  and  the  sun 
shine  falls  with  a  softness  and  a  balmy  sweetness  that 
tells  of  heaven. 

Possibly  a  citizen  might  not  feel  it  thus ;  but  even  the 
citizen  cannot  altogether  escape  the  influence  of  the  quiet 
which  reigns  everywhere,  and  surprised  and  awed  by  the 
stillness  to  which  he  is  unaccustomed,  his  soul  gradually, 
but  certainly,  yields  to  the  holy  spell  which  is  over  all 
the  world  around  him. 

We  rise  at  the  usual  hour,  and  breakfast  separately. 
I  do  not  think  we  have  taken  coffee  together,  at  home,  on 
a  Sunday  morning,  in  two  years.  If  there  is  company  at 
the  hall,  they  find  their  own  way  to  the  breakfast-room, 
at  their  own  hour,  and  take  care  of  themselves  during 
the  day.  But  Joe  and  myself  always  meet  on  the  lawn 


256  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    RIVER. 

after  breakfast,  and  usually  stroll  a  little  way  from  the 
house  into  the  woods,  and  sit  on  the  grass,  or  on  the 
rock  seat  near  the  river-side,  and  talk  quietly,  in  a  lower 
tone  than  on  other  days.  One  habit  we  have  that  may 
be  note- worthy  :  it  is,  never  to  appear  in  dressing-gowns 
or  slippers,  nor  in  a  careless  dress  on  a  Sunday,  at  any 
hour  of  the  day.  Toward  church  time  we  hear  the  sound 
of  the  village-bell  rolling  up  musically  across  the  forests 
and  over  the  farms ;  and  at  the  regular  hour  the  horses 
stand  saddled  before  the  door,  and  the  carriage  if  there 
is  any  one  to  use  it,  and  we  ride  slowly  down  the  avenue. 
Sometimes  we  do  not  ride,  but  walk  the  few  miles  to  the 
village,  and  then  we  leave  the  road  and  find  our  way 
among  the  flowers  and  along  the  brook-sides,  not  loiter 
ing,  but  hastening  through  pleasant  scenes  to  the  most 
beautiful  scene  of  all, — the  village  congregation. 

If  we  ride,  it  is  along  the  country  road,  half  way 
through  the  forest,  and  the  remainder  by  fields  of  grain 
or  waving  grass.  Wagon  load  after  wagon  load  of  the 
families  of  the  congregation  are  passing  along  the  same 
road.  The  long  farm  wagons,  each  holding  three  or  four 
seats,  with  six  or  eight  persons,  are  never  used  except  on 
Sunday,  or  for  an  afternoon  visit  on  a  week-day. 

There  is  a  remarkable  uniformity  in  the  dresses  of  all 
the  different  people  that  you  see  in  these  wagons.  Black 
silk  dresses  abound  among  the  elderly  ladies,  and  pure 
white  muslin  is  the  prevailing  style  for  the  children  and 
girls.  The  young  ladies,  and  the  matronly  young  wives 
of  farmers,  have  a  peculiar  style  of  bonnet  and  shawl, 


THE    OLD    CHURCH.  257 

from  which  few  vary ;  while  the  men,  young  and  old,  have 
the  same  heavy  cloth  dress  coats  with  high  thick  collars, 
pushing  their  hair  up  to  the  tops  of  their  heads,  and  de 
stroying  the  equilibrium  of  their  hats. 

Each  wagon  load  that  we  pass,  greets  us  pleasantly, 
and  we  exchange  inquiries  about  the  families  and  family 
affairs,  and  part  without  a  good-bye,  or  even  a  bow ;  for 
are  we  not  all  on  a  pilgrimage  together,  and  all  going  to 
the  same  house  ? 

The  bell  is  tolling  as  we  enter  the  long  village  street, 
and  each  little  white  gate  is  thrown  open  for  the  exit 
of  a  small  company,  dressed  in  gayer  apparel  than  the 
farmers  wear.  At  the  church-door  a  group  of  men  sur 
rounds  the  chief  entrance,  and  the  ladies  alone  are  in 
their  pews.  The  men  meet  to  discuss  the  crops,  and  the 
weather,  and  the  few  incidents  of  the  six  days.  It  is  not 
till  after  the  first  prayer  that  they  enter,  and  then  there 
is  a  pause  in  the  service  while  they  pour  in  at  each  of  the 
doors,  and  walk  heavily  to  their  seats.  t 

We  enter  the  church  door  reverently.  May  it  never 
be  otherwise. 

That  old  church  is  the  holiest  spot  on  this  earth  to  us; 
and  those  old  square  pews  are  the  dearest  resting-places 
for  our  weary  bodies  and  souls  that  we  shall  ever  find 
this  side  heaven. 

"We  were  children  together;  and  Joe  Willis's  father 
and  mother,  and  my  father  and  mother,  used  to  sit  in 
those  pews  adjoining  each  other ;  and  Joe  and  I  used  to 
hold  whispered  consultations  under  the  curiously-elevated 


258          THE  OLD  HOUSE  BY  THE  RIVER. 

rail  that  separated  us.  There  were  the  same  books  that 
they  used ;  the  same  cushions,  now  old  and  faded,  but 
still  the  same ;  the  pulpit  unchanged  in  any  particular, 
even  to  its  high  sounding-board,  and  the  window,  half  in 
each  pew,  was  there,  with  the  same  old  sunshine  stealing 
in  on  us  in  the  sermon  time.  Outside  the  window  there 
was  evidence  of  change.  There  lay  the  sleeping  congre 
gation,  except  only  those  that  were  buried  in  the  north 
graveyard,  and  there  lay  the  old  pastor  with  his  people. 

Across  the  church  was  the  seat  occupied  by  Judge  Wil 
lis,  until  the  death  of  Joe's  father,  when  the  judge  took 
his  pew.  There,  in  the  olden  time,  we  used  to  see  of  a 
Sabbath  morning  the  saint-like  face  of  Ellen  Willis,  now 
gone  to  God,  and  there  we  used  at  times  to  hear,  above 
all  the  congregation,  the  music  of  her  bird-like  voice,  soar 
ing  away  before  her  to  the  heaven  she  was  approaching. 
There,  under  the  pulpit,  one  by  one  we  have  rested  the 
forms  of  those  we  had  loved,  and  thence  we  have  carried 
them,  father,  mother,  brother,  and  sister,  (and  dearer 
than  all  these)  out  to  their  rest  in  the  burial  ground. 

I  say  that  church  is  the  holiest  place  on  earth  to  us. 
Could  it  be  otherwise  ?  There  were  other  scenes  to 
make  it  holier  still,  that  may  not  be  mentioned  here. 
Scenes  when  the  soul  had  wings  given  it  to  penetrate 
the  distance  that  separates  us  from  heaven — had  eyes  to 
behold  clearly  the  glories  that  now  visit  us  but  faintly 
in  dreams — had  power  to  feel  somewhat  the  breadth  and 
depth  of  that  love  which  sustained  our  lost  ones,  every 
one,  in  the  trial  of  the  dark  hour. 


THE    OLD    CHURCH.  259 

For  were  they  not  sustained  ?  When  the  gloom  of 
night  gathered  around  them,  was  there  not  some  good 
hand  guiding  them,  some  life-giving  voice  cheering  them, 
some  stout  arm  for  them  to  lean  upon  ?  Else  how  was 
it  that  without  fear  or  faltering,  they  all  entered  the 
unknown  country,  and  spoke  words  of  cheer,  and  prom 
ise,  and  joy,  even  when  the  cloud  received  them  out  of 
our  sight  ? 

Blessed  be  the  memory  of  the  old  church  forever- 
more. 

Blessed,  too,  be  the  memory  of  the  old  pastor.  Mr. 
Winter  was  a  man  of  God.  For  fifty  years  he  walked 
before  that  people  in  meekness  and  gentleness,  but  with 
all  the  dignity  of  his  holy  profession.  I  can  see  him 
now  as  when  I  saw  him  last,  his  white  locks  flowing  down 
over  his  shoulders,  his  serene  eye  resting  on  mine  with 
a  look  of  deep  affection ;  and  I  can  hear  his  voice  full  of 
love,  uttering  that  simple  benediction  on  the  departing 
boy. 

"May  the  God  of  Joseph  bless  you,  Philip,  and 
strengthen  you,  and  prosper  you.  I  loved  your  father, 
and  your  father's  father.  I  love  you  too,  Philip.  May 
God  bless  you,  my  son." 

Good  old  man !  When  I  am  weary  of  the  vanity  of 
the  world  I  remember  him.  When  I  incline  to  doubt 
the  existence  of  true  holiness  of  life,  I  am  glad  to  re 
member  him.  When  I  am  disappointed,  harassed,  and 
ready  to  yield,  1  remember  him,  who,  after  fourscore 
years  of  suffering,  of  wandering  and  homelessness,  was  as 


260  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    RIVER. 

calmly  confident  of  the  truth  of  God  and  his  eternal  rest, 
as  if  he  had  but  yesterday  come  from  that  home  and 
were  now  returning. 

His  voice  was  clear  and  full  even  at  eighty.  It  trem 
bled  sometimes,  but  with  emotion,  not  with  weakness. 
His  step  was  feeble  for  many  years,  and  I  have  known 
him  on  a  Sunday  afternoon  to  enter  the  chancel  and  not 
go  up  into  the  pulpit,  and  then  his  voice  sounded  greater 
depths  in  his  hearer's  hearts  than  at  other  times,  for  they 
felt  more  at  such  periods  how  near  the  old  man  was  to  his 
departure. 

One  morning  he  was  too  feeble  to  preach.  It  was  the 
last  day  that  I  ever  saw  him  in  the  church,  for  I  left  home 
shortly  after  that,  and  was  absent  for  a  long  time,  wan 
dering  up  and  down  the  world.  I  believe  it  was  the  last 
day  he  was  ever  in  the  church.  He  drove  up  to  the  door 
in  his  low-wheeled  gig,  and  helped  himself  out,  while 
George  Stevens,  the  son  of  a  wealthy  farmer  in  the  con 
gregation,  took  care  of  the  horse,  and  Mr.  Stevens  himself 
gave  him  an  arm  as  he  reached  the  ground.  He  entered 
the  church  with  a  slow  and  heavy  step,  but  as  he  entered 
his  form  grew  erect,  he  lifted  his  hat  reverently  from  his 
head,  and  looked  with  a  bright  eye  up  to  the  ceiling  of 
the  old  house,  and  felt  the  inspiration  of  the  place  so  evi 
dently,  that  his  face  assumed  a  new  and  almost  super 
natural  glow. 

He  needed  no  help  down  the  long  aisle,  for  the  strength 
he  had  so  suddenly  acquired  sustained  him  thus  far.  But 
as  he  approached  the  altar,  at  which  he  had  offered  Sab- 


THE    OLD    CHURCH.  261 

Ibath  sacrifice  morning  and  evening  through  so  many  long 
years,  he  seemed  to  feel  again  his  mortality,  and  reaching 
out  his  hand  feebly  to  the  rail  that  enclosed  the  chancel, 
he  supported  himself  on  it  and  leaning  forward,  appeared 
for  a  moment  to  be  about  to  fall.  But  he  advanced  at 
length  to  a  chair,  and  when  he  was  seated  there,  his  eye 
roved  over  the  congregation.  It  sought  finally  the  elders' 
pew  on  his  right,  where  sat  the  old  men  who  had  been  his 
counsellors  and  assistants  since  he  was  young.  One  of 
them,  Solomon  Pierson,  understood  his  wish  and  ap 
proached  him.  To  him  the  pastor  communicated  his  in 
ability  to  preach,  and  after  a  few  moments  consultation, 
Solomon  resumed  his  seat,  and  Mr.  Winter  rose  and 
offered  prayer.  There  was  a  profound  stillness  in  all  the 
congregation  during  the  brief  invocation  of  the  Divine 
Presence,  and  then  followed  the  usual  rush  of  the  men 
who  had  been  waiting  without  the  doors.  He  lifted  his 
eyes  to  them  sadly,  for  he  had  long  striven  in  vain  against 
that  heathenish  custom.  The  last  one  who  entered,  bring 
ing  up  the  rear,  was  a  boy,  with  an  exceedingly  old  look 
in  his  manner  and  dress.  He  wore  the  usual  blue  dress 
coat,  with  brass  buttons  and  high  collar,  in  which  his  head 
was  lost,  and  his  boots  were  of  that  heavy,  noisy  sort,  that 
I  think  are  unknown  except  in  our  neighborhood.  He 
went  with  a  lingering  step  down  the  side  aisle,  and  there 
was  something  painfully  ludicrous  in  the  gaze  with  which 
the  old  pastor  followed  him  to  his  seat,  before  he  rose  to 
read  some  verses  of  the  107th  Psalm. 

In  those  days  we  had  no  choir,  but  the  precentor 


262  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THB    RIVER. 

whose  seat  Mr.  Winter  occupied  that  day,  stood  near  his 
side  and  sang,  while  with  one  voice  the  whole  congrega 
tion  joined ;  and  there  was  never  such  music  in  any  other 
place  on  earth,  as  was  heard  in  the  old  church  that  morn 
ing.  There  were  voices  that  could  be  distinguished  from 
the  rest  as  they  reached  the  more  mournful  passages; 
and  the  old  man  himself  joined  in  the  last  verses,  and 
sang  with  a  clear,  rich  tone,  the  words : 

"  The  storm  is  changed  into  a  calm, 

at  his  command  and  will, 
So  that  the  waves,  which  raged  before, 
now  quiet  are,  and  still. 

"  Then  are  they  glad,  because  at  rest, 

and  quiet  now  they  be ; 
So  to  the  haven  he  them  brings, 
which  they  desired  to  see. 

"  Oh  that  men  to  the  Lord  would  give 

praise  for  his  goodness  then, 
And  for  his  works  of  wonder  done 
unto  the  sons  of  men." 

But  after  that  Mr.  Winter  arose  and  spoke  to  the  peo 
ple.  He  said  that  he  had  thought,  that  morning,  to  have 
addressed  to  them  some  words  of  faith  and  promise, 
which  had  reached  his  heart  with  much  force  as  he  medi 
tated  on  the  events,  of  which  that  day  was  the  anniver 
sary.  Then,  for  the  first  time,  it  occurred  to  many  pres 
ent,  that  this  was  the  day  for  his  annual  sermon,  since  it 
was  the  date  of  his  installation,  fifty-one  years  before. 
There  were  not  many  there,  he  said,  who  remembered 


THE    OLD    CHURCH.  263 

that  day.  He  saw  but  four  persons  in  the  church  who 
could  recall  its  incidents ;  and  only  one  was  present,  who 
took  part  in  the  proceedings  as  a  member  of  that  church. 
And  here  he  turned  toward  an  old  man  on  his  left,  and 
with  deep  emotion,  uttered  one  sentence  in  the  hearing 
of  us  all  that  impressed  itself  on  my  mind  indelibly. 
"  They  are  all  gone,  my  friend,  and  the  church-yard  con 
gregation  is  well-nigh  full.  Let  us  go  to  them."  And 
he  paused  and  bowed  his  head  very  low ;  and  before  he 
lifted  it,  a  fear  had  taken  hold  of  the  entire  congregation 
that  he  would  never  speak  to  them  again. 

A  sob  broke  the  stillness.  It  cajne  from  his  son  Phil 
ip's  pew;  and  the  old  pastor  turned  his  eyes  fondly 
toward  it,  and  then  to  his  people,  and,  in  a  few  words, 
told  them  to  go  home,  for  he  could  not  preach  that  day, 
and  might  never  preach  again,  and  bade  them  remember 
his  last  words  to  them  so  long  as  they  lived ;  and  then 
his  eye  kindled  again,  and  his  head  was  uplifted,  and  his 
form  grew  erect,  and  he  looked  up  steadily,  as  if  through 
the  little  semicircular  window  in  the  gable  of  the  church 
he  could  see  that  whereof  he  spoke ;  and  now,  in  a  voice 
of  pure  sweet  tone  and  great  power,  especially  above  the 
solemn  silence  which  prevailed,  he  said  : 

"  These  are  my  last  words  to  you,  my  people  :  '  I  know 
that  my  Redeemer  liveth,  and  that  he  shall  stand  at  the 
latter  day  upon  the  earth.  And  though,  after  my  skin, 
worms  destroy  this  body,  yet  in  my  flesh  shall  I  see 
God  !'  " 

Many  years  after  that  Sabbath  morning,  I  was  in  a 


264  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    RIVER. 

lordly  hall,  in  the  midst  of  an  assembly  of  noble  men  and 
fair  ladies.  And  for  the  pleasure  of  the  throng,  a  singer, 
worshipped  by  half  of  Europe,  was  to  pour  out  her  mel 
ody.  I  had  heard  her,  and,  like  all  the  others,  I  waited 
in  profound  silence  for  her  utterance.  That  scene  is  be 
fore  me  now.  I  remember  the  gorgeous  hall,  the  mag 
nificence  of  apparel,  the  heavy  tapestries,  the  splendid 
appointments,  the  oppression  of  princely  presence.  At 
length  her  voice  was  heard;  low,  bird-like,  unutterably 
sweet ;  and  it  thrilled  through  the  hearts  of  those  who 
listened,  till  unchecked  tears  gave  evidence  of  the  power 
of  the  melody.  That  opening  note  was  all  that  I  heard ; 
and  as  she  glided  through  the  magnificent  strains  with 
which  Handel  has  clothed  that  sublime  passage  of  the 
prophet  leader  of  Israel,  I  was  away  in  the  old  church  in 
the  village,  and  listening  to  the  last  words  I  ever  heard 
in  it  from  the  lips  of  the  old  pastor. 

Blessed  forevermore  be  his  memory !  And  blessed, 
too,  be  the  memory  of  those  who  were  his  friends  and 
companions,  and  counsellors,  and  supporters.  Of  Simon 
Gray  and  Solomon  Pierson,  I  have  spoken.  They  have 
gone  to  their  reward.  So,  too,  William  Denton,  a  good 
man,  and  holy,  has  sought  another  and  better  country, 
even  a  heavenly.  We  can  never  enter  the  old  church 
without  thinking  of  him.  He  was  never  tall,  and,  in  his 
old  age  he  was  so  bent  down  as  to  seem  almost  deformed. 
He  used  to  enter  the  church  by  the  middle  aisle,  and 
always  paused  a  moment  after  he  had  entered,  in  silent 
prayer.  Then  with  a  quaint  swing  of  his  body,  and  an 


THE    OLD    CHURCH.  265 

eye  singularly  turned  upward  toward  the  pulpit,  he  would 
walk  up  and  take  his  seat  in  the  elder's  pew,  and  sit 
there,  motionless  as  a  statue,  until  the  benediction. 

He  was  a  man  of  peculiar  intellectual  power,  and  had 
accomplished  more  reading  and  study  than  all  the  rest 
of  the  congregation  together. 

On  the  left  side  of  his  forehead  was  a  scar  which  ne 
cessarily  excited  the  curiosity  of  those  who  saw  him.  It 
was  the  mark  of  an  occurrrence  which  he  never  mentioned, 
and  which  he  would  have  desired  all  who  had  heard  of 
it  to  forget ;  but  it  was  an  interesting  story,  for  it  was 
startling  to  think  that  that  old  and  bent  man,  tottering 
feebly  to  his  pew,  had  once  been  the  leader  of  all  the 
gay  young  men  in  the  congregation,  and  had  been  him 
self  a  young  stout  man  of  elegant  form  and  exceedingly 
beautiful  countenance.  Such,  indeed,  he  had  been  fifty 
years  before.  He  was  then  the  indulged  nephew  of  an 
old  aunt,  who  supplied  him  freely  with  money,  wherewith 
to  involve  himself  in  all  the  difficulties  into  which  money 
usually  leads  young  men. 

There  was  at  that  time,  living  in  the  house  next  the 
church,  a  family  consisting  of  a  father  and  his  two  chil 
dren — a  son  and  a  daughter.  The  former  had  once  been 
a  rival  of  William  Denton  in  the  leadership  of  the  young 
men ;  the  latter  was  unrivalled  by  any  other  of  the  village 
maidens  for  beauty  or  for  gentleness. 

Stephen  Grandison  had  some  good,  but  more  bad 
traits  of  character,  and  among  other  evils  he  had  a  taste 
for  somewhat  low  society.  In  the  city  he  had  formed 
12 


266  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    $IVER. 

alliances  with  not  a  few  disreputable  characters,  and  had 
even  introduced  some  of  unknown  name  or  fame  to  his 
father's  house,  and  the  acquaintance  of  his  sister.  Mr. 
G-randison  was  a  weak  man,  of  idle,  careless  habits  of 
life,  and  paid  no  sort  of  attention  to  what  his  son  and 
daughter  were  doing.  Hence,  Alice  had  no  means  of 
knowing  the  contamination  of  such  acquaintances,  except 
as  her  own  pure  heart  instinctively  recoiled  from  some 
of  the  men  that  her  brother  presented. 

My  story  must  be  brief.  William  Denton  hacMmown 
Alice  from  her  childhood,  and  had  loved  her  always ;  but 
Alice,  though  she  prized  him  above  all  her  friends,  could 
not.  say  that  she  loved  him.  I  believe  that  such  was  the 
state  of  affairs  between  them,  at  the  time  of  the  occur 
rence  I  am  about  to  relate.  They  fully  understood  each 
other,  and  were  excellent  friends. 

Stephen  had  become  bound  in  some  nefarious  transac 
tion  to  a  man  from  the  city,  doubtless  an  accomplished 
scoundrel,  and  as  it  subsequently  appeared  had  sold  to 
him  his  sister  and  her  fortune.  But  it  was  a  sale  which 
was  not  easily  effected  without  the  consent  of  the  mer 
chandise  disposed  of,  and  Alice  was  peremptory  in  her 
refusal  to  know  the  proposed  suitor,  other  than  as  the 
friend  of  her  brother.  As  such  she  treated  him  politely, 
and  only  politely. 

Denton  had  watched  the  proceeding  with  a  keen  eye, 
and  penetrated  the  whole.  Stephen  had  quarrelled  with 
him  as  an  excuse  to  make  his  visits  at  the  house  unpleas 
ant,  and  thus  diminish  their  frequency.  But  the  eye  of 


THE    OLD    CHURCH.  267 

the  lover  was  on  all  the  plot,  and  with  singular  ability 
he  had  so  far  discovered  the  intentions  of  the  two  who 
were  plotting  against  Alice  G-randison  as  to  have  taken 
precautions  against  them,  that  had  hitherto  prevented 
their  accomplishment. 

The  plot  however  ripened,  and  a  time  was  fixed  for  her 
abduction.  The  unsuspicious  girl  was  to  take  an  after 
noon  drive  with  her  brother,  and  in  a  lonesome  road  the 
pair  were  to  be  set  upon  by  a  sufficient  force  to  render 
the  brother's  pretended  resistance  entirely  futile,  and  to 
save  him  from  all  appearance  of  connivance  at  his  sister's 
fate. 

William  Denton's  close  observation  had  been  attracted 
that  forenoon  as  he  strolled  in  his  usual  lazy  way  down 
the  village  street.  He  caught  sight  of  the  strange  suitor 
of  Alice,  talking  with  a  black  looking  scamp,  who  stood 
on  the  tavern  steps,  and  who,  with  three  companions  look 
ing  like  him,  drove  out  of  town  five  minutes  afterward. 
An  hour  later,  from  his  usual  seat  at  the  window  of  his 
aunt's  house,  he  saw  Stephen  Grandison  and  Alice  drive 
by  in  the  same  direction. 

He  sprang  up  and  the  whole  plan  was  before  him  in 
stantly.  Hastening  to  the  stables  he  saddled  his  own 
horse,  while  Sam,  a  lithe  and  active  slave,  was  getting 
ready  and  mounting  another,  and  the  two  went  out  to 
gether  on  the  south  road.  Five  minutes  swift  riding 
brought  him  within  sight  of  the  carriage,  and  he  then 
slackened  his  pace : — 

"  Sam— can  you  fight  ?" 


268  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    RIVER. 

"  Gruess  I  can,  Massa  William." 

"  Do  you  like  to  fight  two  to  five  ?" 

"  The  more,  the  better,  sah." 

"  Very  well,  Sam — we  are  going  to  do  a  little  fighting 
this  afternoon,  and  all  you  have  to  do  is  to  thrash  any 
one  but  the  lady.  You  understand,  do  you  ?" 

"  Guess  I  do." 

Sam  was  entirely  trustworthy ;  and  the  conversation 
had  scarcely  ceased  and  Sam  fallen  back  to  the  rear, 
when  the  carriage  turned  into  a  road  which  led  along 
the  river-bank  and  suddenly  stopped  while  Stephen  Gran- 
dison  sprang  out  as  if  to  examine  a  lynch-pin.  This  was 
the  preconcerted  signal  for  the  advance  of  the  men  from 
the  forest,  and  one  seized  the  horse,  while  two  threw  Ste 
phen  down  and  held  him  as  two  others  approached  the 
carriage.  Alice  was  at  first  astounded,  but  recognizing 
one  of  the  advancing  men,  she  saw  that  the  object  of  the 
attack  was  herself,  and  prepared  to  resist  so  far  as  she 
was  able,  even  to  death. 

But  before  any  one  had  touched  her,  William  Denton 
and  Sam  came  up  at  a  thundering  pace,  and  sprang  from 
their  horses  in  the  midst  of  the  group.  The  struggle 
which  commenced  was  brief  and  severe.  The  first  blow 
of  Denton's  heavy  whip-handle  prostrated  one  of  the 
scoundrels,  but  the  whip  was  wrested  from  his  hand  on 
the  instant,  and  he  closed  with  the  second.  Sam  pro 
tected  his  rear,  and  a  blow  from  the  same  whip  handle 
rung  on  the  boy's  head  with  a  clear  sound,  but  did  him  no 
manner  of  harm.  As  Denton  closed  with  his  adversary, 


THE    OLD    CHURCH.  269 

he  gave  him  a  back  trip  that  sent  him  flying  into  the 
ditch,  and  at  the  same  instant  received  a  blow  on  the 
head  which  well-nigh  despatched  him.  But  rallying  to 
meet  a  new  foe,  he  had  only  an  instant  to  see  that  it  was 
the  suitor  of  Alice  himself,  when  he  was  blinded  by  the 
flash  of  a  pistol  in  his  eyes,  and  stunned  by  a  ball  which 
passed,  grazing  his  head  and  plowing  a  furrow  as  it  went 
along  the  temple,  and  thence  by  a  strange  fatality  entered 
the  shoulder  of  Stephen  Grandison,  who  had  been  re 
leased  from  his  pretended  durance  by  Sam's  stalwart  arm, 
which  had  demolished  both  of  his  captors.  As  Grandison 
fell,  the  horse  sprang  over  him  and  dashed  down  the  road 
with  the  carriage  and  Alice,  who  was  by  this  time  insen 
sible  from  horror. 

For  a  moment  the  attention  of  the  group  was  drawn 
to  the  flying  horse,  and  in  that  moment  Denton  had  time 
to  seize  his  own  horse  which  stood  motionless  near  by, 
and,  springing  into  the  saddle,  gallop  down  the  road  in 
pursuit  of  Alice. 

Lifting  his  horse  over  the  fence  *  at  the  road-side,  he 
crossed 'the  country  for  a  half  mile,  and  regained  the 
road  in  time  to  head  the  flying  animal  and  to  stop  him. 
Then  taking  measures  to  restore  Alice,  which  he  soon 
effected,  he  mounted  the  carriage  by  her  side  just  as 
Sam  came  up  with  intelligence  that  the  scoundrels  had 
gone  off  in  a  boat,  and  were  pulling  down  toward  the 
city  under  the  shadow  of  the  river  bank,  having  left 
Stephen  in  the  road,  apparently  bleeding  to  death. 
Alice  did  not  dream  that  her  brother  had  any  connec- 


270  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    RIVER. 

tion  with  this  affair,  but  begged  William  to  hasten  to  his 
assistance.  They  drove  back  by  the  scene  of  the  fray, 
and  took  Stephen,  who  had  fainted,  into  the  carriage, 
and  drove  homeward. 

The  romance  of  the  affair  would  be  ruined  if  Alice  had 
not  loved  William  Denton  after  that.  He  kept  the 
secret  well,  so  that  his  wife  never  knew  the  truth  until 
twenty  years  later.  Stephen  Grandison,  under  the  fear  of 
exposure,  submitted  himself  to  William  Denton's  care 
and  management,  and  they  grew  old  together,  and  were 
honered  men  in  the  village  councils. 

But  I  have  wandered  far  away  from  the  old  church  in 
this  story.  William  Denton  has  long  ago  joined  the 
congregation  in  the  graveyard,  and  rests  in  hope  with  his 
Alice. 

John  Maclean  was  another  of  the  elders,  who  died  when 
I  was  but  a  boy.  He  was  a  stern,  harsh  man,  one  of  a 
class  that  I  am  thankful  is  now  almost  extinct.  Religion 
with  him  was  a  duty  and  not  a  pleasure.  It  could 
scarcely  be  called  bigotry,  but  it  had  no  grace  or  beauty. 
It  lent  no  gentleness  to  the  man,  gave  no  tinge  of  heaven 
to  the  soul.  On  the  contrary,  he  who  would  otherwise 
have  been  a  harmless,  inoffensive  being,  became  a  terror 
to  the  young,  and  almost  an  enemy  to  the  old.  He  had 
no  friends,  no  allies  in  life,  but  walked  along  his  own 
path,  in  which  no  one  disturbed  him,  proud  of  his  own 
professed  humility.  No  one  had  fault  to  find  with  him, 
and  no  one  was  ever  heard  to  speak  well  of  him. 

When  the   iron-handed  and  iron-hearted  farmer  was 


THE    OLD    CHURCH.  271 

advancing  toward  the  prime  of  life,  his  wife  died,  leaving 
him  four  sons,  who  grew  up  to  be  strong  men,  and  were 
married  and  settled  on  farms  near  the  village.  Not 
many  years  later  he  married  a  slight,  pale  girl  in  a  dis 
tant  city.  There  was  mystery  about  it ;  and  it  was  said 
that  she  Was  poor,  and  had  married  him  for  a  home  and 
a  support,  not  for  love.  Others  thought  it  was  not  so, 
and  that  she  loved  him.  Certain  it  is  that  in  the  few 
years  she  lived  with  him,  harsh,  cold,  and  stern  as  he 
was,  she  had  learned  to  love  him  with  all  the  trusting 
faith  of  a  woman.  It  was  a  beautiful  picture  in  the  life 
of  the  hard  man,  that  clinging  love  of  his  young  wife ; 
and  like  all  very  beautiful  things  it  soon  faded,  for  she  died. 

What  a  death  was  hers !  She  spoke  no  last  sobbing 
words  of  anguish,  no  reproaches  for  coldness  or  unkind- 
ness.  She  only  looked  into  his  face  from  the  pillow  on 
which  her  white  cheek  rested,  one  long,  long  gaze  full  of 
the  agony  of  rending  love,  and  meeting  only  those  calm, 
cold  eyes  of  his,  she  felt  the  fluttering  of  the  caged  soul. 
The  prison  seemed  now,  as  never  before,  cold,  icy  cold ; 
and  the  winds  appeared  to  be  driving  through  it,  and  the 
storms  pouring  down  on  it ;  and  then  she  felt  as  if  that 
driving  wind  were  bearing  her  away,  away ;  for  now  he 
seemed  to  be  more  distant  from  her — now  farther  off, 
and  not  as  though  he  went,  but  as  though  she  were 
passing,  gliding  swiftly,  coldly,  away  from  him. 

She  would  speak,  but  she  could  not ;  she  would  kiss 
him,  but  her  lips  would  not  move ;  she  would  put  her 
tiny  white  arms  around  his  rugged  neck,  but  her  arms 


2*72  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    RIVER. 

were  bound.  She  wished  he  would  come  near  to  her,  but 
he  sat  in  his  chair  unmoved.  She  would  smile  at  him — 
and  she  could  do  that — and  she  did  smile,  and  the  smile 
was  like  the  blessing  of  an  angel  looking  back  from  the 
threshold  of  heaven — and  even  as  she  smiled,  the  wind 
bore  her  away,  away,  and  she  lay  there  dead,  find  he  sat 
in  his  chair  and  slept ;  and  when  he  awoke  she  was  with 
the  blessed  in  heaven,  and  he  was  alone  on  the  earth. 

But  even  this  only  served  to  harden  his  features  and 
his  heart.  She  left  him  two  children,  a  son  and  a  daugh 
ter,  and  he  brought  them  up  with  iron  rule.  It  was 
like  flowers  blooming  out  among  rocks  or  ruins,  to  see 
those  two  children  springing  up  into  youth  with  all  their 
natural  beauty,  and  purity,  and  freshness  of  character 
unchanged,  and  almost  unaffected  by  the  stern  subjection 
under  which  they  were  kept. 

Allan  was  a  slightly -formed  boy,  with  a  keen,  quick, 
black  eye,  and  a  thoughtful  cast  of  countenance.  Jessie, 
the  youngest,  was  like  him,  and  was  maidenly  and  beau 
tiful.  They  used  to  walk  down  the  road  under  the  elm 
row,  every  Sunday  morning,  to  the  church,  and  sit  toge 
ther  in  the  corner  pew  behind  that  in  which  their  father 
sat  in  frowning  gloom.  After  her  mother's  death,  Jessie 
shed  many  tears,  and  was  very  lonesome,  for  John 
Maclean  was  not  a  man  to  win  love  from  his  children. 
They  feared  him,  and  had  none  of  that  affection  for  him 
which  makes  a  home  happy.  They  trembled  when  he 
came  in,  for  he  seldom  spoke  pleasant  words,  and  usually 
found  fault  with  Jessie  and  scolded  Allan,  and  sat  gloom- 


THE    OLD    CHURCH.  273 

ily  before  the  fire  all  the  evening.  At  nine  o'clock  he 
called  all  the  household  in  for  prayers,  and  then  saw  that 
every  light  in  the  house  was  out  before  he  retired. 

One  night,  when  the  bell  was  rung  for  prayers,  all 
were  present  but  Allan,  and  he  was  not  to  be  found. 
Jessie  professed  ignorance  of  his  whereabouts,  and  none 
of  the  servants  had  seen  him  since  dark.  A  frown  gath 
ered  on  the  Elder%  face  as  he  commenced,  and  his  voice 
was  uncommonly  harsh. 

While  he  was  yet  reading,  Allan  entered,  and  took  his 
seat  in  silence.  His  father  paused  and  looked  at  him. 

"  Where  have  you  been  till  this  time  ?" 

"  I  have  been  at  Mr.  White's,  sir,  spending  the  even- 
ing." 

Now,  Mary  White  was  one  of  the  prettiest  girls  in  the 
neighborhood,  and  a  smile  passed  over  Jessie's  face  at 
this  explanation.  But  a  smile  during  prayer-time  was 
unpardonable,  and  the  anger  of  the  Elder  descended  on 
both  of  them  with  a  voice  of  thunder. 

Allan  had  long  been  growing  impatient  of  his  father's 
severity,  and  his  condition  now  bordered  on  madness. 
He  rose  from  his  chair  while  his  father  was  speaking. 
His  face  was  pale,  and  his  eye  flashed  insanely  He 
walked  across  the  room  to  Jessie,  stooped  low,  and  kissed 
her,  saying,  "  Grood-bye,  Jessie,"  and  without  a  look  toward 
his  father,  who  sat  motionless  with  surprise,  walked 
swiftly  out  of  the  door.  The  father,  pale  and  terror- 
stricken,  rushed  from  the  house  and  called  "  Allan,  Al 
lan,"  but  received  no  answer. 

12* 


274 


THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    RIVER. 


Through  many  a  lonely  year  after  that,  John  Maclean 
called  his  wandering  son,  but  he  returned  to  him  no  more. 

Jessie  was  left  alone,  saddest  of  all  that  her  selfish  bro 
ther  should  have  so  forgotten  her.  And  the  fire  blazed 
on  the  hearth  through  five  winters,  and  five  times  the 
spring  flowers  bloomed  on  the  bank  of  the  stream  at  the 
foot  of  the  garden,  and  Jessie  Maclean  was  twenty-one, 
and  very  lovely. 

But  the  hour  had  come  for  John  Maclean  to  enter  the 
scenes  he  had  so  long  spoken  of.  True  to  his  life,  his 
death-bed  was  calm  and  confident.  He  had  been  some 
what  changed  by  Allan's  departure,  and  Jessie  had  found 
him  once  or  twice  in  tears.  His  treatment  of  her,  too, 
was  in  a  measure  kinder,  but  the  world  saw  nothing  to 
indicate  that  he  was  not  the  same  stern  man. 

It  was  at  evening  in  the  summer,  and  the  clergyman 
who  had  been  his  pastor  many  years,  stood  by  his  side, 
and  Jessie  knelt  at  his  feet.  His  large  hand,  now  pale 
and  thin,  lay  outside  the  sheet,  and  his  gray  hair  was 
carefully  combed  back  from  his  forehead  over  the  pillow. 
He  had  sent  for  his  children,  and  they  were  coming. 
One  by  one  they  entered  his  room,  and  stood  around 
his  bed.  The  twilight  gathered  around  them,  and  the 
Elder's  voice  broke  the  stillness. 

It  was  softer  than  ever  before,  and  they  said  it  trem 
bled  as  he  spoke  of  days  long  passed.  He  recounted 
much  of  his  life,  telling  them  of  its  trials,  doubts,  and 
difficulties,  and  spoke  penitently  of  his  errors.  Most  of 
all,  he  longed  to  see  Allan,  but  he  came  not;  and  having 


THE    OLD    CHURCH.  2Y5 

charged  his  children  solemnly  for  their  future  lives,  he 
prayed  earnestly  for  his  wandering  son.  His  voice  grew 
fainter  and  fainter,  and  more  and  more  broken,  and  at 
length  ceased  entirely.  An  hour  passed,  during  which 
he  seemed  to  sleep  heavily.  Then  a  sound  of  a  horse's 
feet  was  heard,  coming  swiftly  toward  the  house,  and  he 
woke  suddenly,  and  staring  wildly  in  Jessie's  face,  said, 
"  Tell  Allan  I  blessed  him ;"  and  a  shiver  passed  through 
his  giant  limbs,  and  so  he  died. 

At  the  moment  Allan  entered  and  threw  himself  down 
by  the  bedside ;  but  there  was  no  mistaking  the  counte 
nance  of  death,  and  deep  silence  reigned  in  the  room, 
broken  at  length  by  Allan's  sob. 

It  was  dark,  but  Jessie  felt  her  way  along  the  bedside 
to  Allan,  and  knelt  by  him,  and  put  her  arms  around  his 
neck  and  whispered,  "He  blessed  you,  Allan;"  and  Al 
lan  thanked  God  audibly,  and  they  two  wept  together 
while  the  pastor  prayed. 

The  bell  tolled  sixty-nine  in  the  solemn  night  time, 
and  all  the  people  knew  by  the  passing  bell  that  Elder 
Maclean  had  gone  from  among  them.  Old  men  woke 
and  turned  restlessly,  and  were  afraid  to  sleep  again,  and 
rose,  and  sat  at  their  windows  till  the  morning  dawned, 
watching  the  clouds  that  drifted  across  the  stars.  It  was 
strange,  unpleasantly  strange,  to  think  of  John  Maclean 
as  dead  and  standing  before  God.  Children  crept  from 
their  rooms  to  their  mothers'  doors,  and  asked  who  was 
dead ;  and  hearing  that  it  was  the  gaunt  and  harsh  old 
man,  rejoiced  heartily,  and  slept  more  soundly  for  the  re- 


276  THE    OLD   HOUSE    BY   THE   RIVER. 

lief  they  felt.  No  one  wept  for  him  but  Jessie ;  and  she 
not  much  nor  long. 

A  week  after  that  Allan  and  Jessie  left  the  village  to 
gether.  They  had  some  difficulty  with  the  older  broth 
ers,  in  which  Allan  impetuously  silenced  them,  and 
took  his  sister  away  with  him.  Years  passed,  and  no  one 
heard  of  them,  and  the  village  changed,  and  the  church 
grew  older. 

One  autumn  day  a  hearse  entered  the  village,  followed 
by  a  single  carriage.  They  passed  down  the  street  to 
the  church,  and  a  servant  left  them,  to  inquire  for  the 
sexton.  He  was  easily  found,  and,  with  his  aid,  a  coffin 
was  lifted  from  the  hearse,  and  carried  up  the  aisle,  and 
placed  under  the  pulpit.  Shortly  afterward  the  sexton 
was  seen  digging  a  grave  by  the  side  of  Elder  Maclean's, 
and  old  Mrs.  B ,  who  lived  across  the  street,  in 
stantly  suspected  the  truth.  Putting  on  her  shawl  and 
bonnet,  she  walked .  across  to  the  church  door,  and  en 
tered.  Two  men  and  a  lady  were  kneeling  by  the  open 
coffin  of  a  child.  Jessie  Maclean  brought  her  first 
daughter  to  sleep  by  the  side  of  the  old  Elder. 

Her  husband  and  brother,  with  herself,  were  the  mourn 
ers.  Slowly,  and  after  the  usual  custom,  the  people  be 
gan  to  fill  the  church,  and  the  clergyman  who  had  been 
sent  for,  came  up  the  aisle.  The  older  brothers  had  left 
the  village  two  years  before.  A  prayer  was  offered,  and 
there  were  many  tears  shed ;  and  every  one  passed  by  the 
coffin,  and  looked  on  the  beautiful  sleeper ;  and  then  they 
laid  her  in  the  grave,  and  left  her. 


THE    OLD    CHURCH.  277 

"  Will  you  go  with  us,  Allan  ?"  said  the  husband  of 
Jessie.  Allan  stood  by  the  head  of  his  father's  long 
grave,  looking  steadily  down  at  the  grass  above  it. 

"  Will  you  go  with  us,  Allan  ?"  he  repeated,  but  with 
out  reply. 

"  Come,  Allan,  come,"  said  he,  at  length,  seizing  his 
arm. 

"  Robert,  promise  to  bury  me  here." 

"  I  will  exchange  the  promise  with  you." 

"It  shall  be  so." 

Grasping  each  the  other's  hand,  they  strode  rapidly  to 
the  carriage,  whither  Jessie  tearfully  followed  them,  and 
they  drove  away. 

I  have  met  Allan  frequently,  of  late  years,  in  the  city, 
and  Jessie  sometimes  com.es  to  the  village ;  but  Allan, 
never.  In  the  church  in  the  city,  one  Sunday,  not  long 
ago,  I  sat  by  her  side,  and  starting  up  from  a  dreamy 
listlessness  (mea  culpa !)  I  was  for  an  instant  carried 
back  to  the  old  church  in  the  olden  time,  and  turned 
my  eye  swiftly  around,  half  fearing  that  the  elder  had 
seen  me  sleeping.  But  I  saw  only  the  cold,  calm  face  of 
Allan,  who  was  seated  near  me,  and  looking  up  at  the 
lofty  roof,  and  around  at  the  stained  windows  and  massive 
pillars,  and  then  at  Jessie's  face  again,  I  realized  how  far 
away  was  the  boyhood  that  I  dreamed  of. 

It  is  such  memories  as  these  that  throng  around  the 
old  church.  Sometimes  I  dream  of  it  by  night,  and  in 
my  visions  see  eyes  that  have  long  ago  dimmed,  and 
cheeks  that  blush  no  more.  Sometimes  in  a  deep  sleep, 


278          THE  OLD  HOUSE  BY  THE  RIVER. 

after  toil,  I  hear,  as  in  former  days,  a  brave  old  psalm 
of  the  covenanters  sung  to  a  grand  tune,  and  as  I  listen 
I  separate  the  voices  as  I  used  to  do  in  the  old  church, 
and  at  length  the  sound  grows  fainter  and  holier,  and 
holier  and  fainter,  as  if  it  were  floating  away  to  heaven. 
I  listen  and  awake.  Still  receding,  yet  still  more  heav 
enly,  I  hear  those  voices  in  such  songs  as  seraphs  sing, 
until  at  length  they  die  away  in  the  far-off  harmonies  that 
the  freed  spirit  alone  is  capable  of  hearing. 

What  wonder  that  the  old  church  seems  like  a  sacred 
place,  or,  that  when  we  enter  it  on  a  calm  summer  morn 
ing,  and  sit  in  the  old  pew  that  is  so  lonesome  now,  we 
should  be  lost  in  such  memories  as  these  ? 

We  have  a  younger  pastor  since  the  death  of  Mr.  Win 
ter,  and,  as  he  rises  to  open  the  service,  we  wake  from 
our  communion  with  old  times,  and  listen  with  due  rev 
erence  to  the  voice  of  prayer.  The  village  choir  make 
pleasant  music  aided  by  an  organ  of  not  too  great  force, 
and  the  sermon  is  heard  by  an  attentive  congregation. 
The  open  windows  let  in  the  clear,  rich  air  from  under 
the  shadow  of  the  trees  that  stand  immediately  around 
the  church.  Sometimes  a  stray  bird  enters  and  flut 
ters  around  the  ceiling  and  dashes  out  again.  Often  a 
bee  is  seen,  humming  and  buzzing  around  the  walls,  and 
sometimes  a  commotion  among  the  children  indicates 
that  a  wasp  has  fallen  into  a  pew  and  startled  them. 
And  at  length  the  service  is  ended,  and  the  pastor  remains 
in  the  pulpit  until  all  but  a  few  of  the  congregation  have 
left;  then  he  descends,  and  holds  a  brief  conversation 


OLD    FRIENDS.  279 

with  those  that  remain,  and  joins  his  wife  and  child  who 
wait  him  in  their  pew  near  the  pulpit ;  they  walk  out 
together,  and  down  the  street,  bowing  to  the  people  as 
they  pass  through  the  crowd  at  the  door,  where  the 
wagons  are  standing,  and  where  the  ladies  are  talking 
awhile  before  they  separate. 

We  return  to  the  old  house  more  rapidly  than  we 
went ;  usually  at  a  fast  trot ;  and  speak  to  no  one  on  the 
way.  Then  follow  luncheon  and  the  usual  afternoon 
employments  for  the  day,  and  dinner  ushers  in  the  twi 
light.  That  Sabbath  twilight  is  an  hour  of  deep  calm 
and  peace.  We  usually  sit  on  the  river  shore  for  an 
hour,  watching  the  last  rays  of  the  daylight  as  they 
slowly  recede  from  the  sky,  and,  returning  to  the  house, 
we  close  the  day  with  singing,  in  our  way,  some  of  the 
fine  psalms  and  brave  tunes  that  used  to  fill  the  old  hall 
with  music  and  praise  in  other  days,  when  voices  sang 
them  that  are  now  unheard  here  but  in  memory,  since 
they  have  learned  the  language  and  the  music  of  heaven. 

But  it  is  not  alone  on  Sabbaths  in  the  old  church,  nor 
on  Sabbath  evenings,  that  we  remember  our  old  friends, 
the  companions  of  former  years. 

Where  a  man  has  lived  from  his  boyhood  in  the  same 
place,  and  has  seen  the  same  trees  grow  green  and  sere 
autumn  after  spring,  and  spring  after  autumn,  in  success 
ion  for  one  or  more  scores  of  years,  it  is  to  be  supposed 
he  has  formed  attachments  to  the  families  in  his  imme 
diate  neighborhood,  and  that  he  has  some  intimacies 
which  will  last  him  to  his  grave.  For  life  in  the  country 


280  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    RIVER. 

is  very  much  made  up  of  such  attachments  and  intima 
cies.  But  in  our  case  it  has  not  been  as  in  others,  for 
strangely  the  old  families  are  scattered,  and  the  friends 
of  our  childhood  and  youth  are  almost  all  gone. 

The  retrospect  is  sometimes  a  mournful  one.  From 
any  window  of  the  Hall  we  can  see  the  residences  of  the 
companions  of  our  younger  days,  occupied  now  by  stran 
gers  with  whom  we  have  no  acquaintance.  The  only 
places  still  in  possession  of  their  original  proprietors  are 
some  miles  distant  from  us,  and,  as  a  result  of  new  ties, 
our  family  associations  are  less  intimate  than  formerly. 

Of  those  who  are  gone,  it  is  pleasant  to  talk,  and 
sometimes  in  the  evenings  we  sit  and  relate  the  incidents 
of  earlier  days  with  a  great  deal  of  the  freshness  of  their 
occurrence,  and  thus  renew  the  memories  of  the  friends 
that  are  not. 

But  in  the  histories  of  those  families  there  have  been 
sorrowful  pages,  and  he  who  will  attempt  to  relate  the 
half  of  the  stories  of  pain,  suffering,  and  bereavement 
that  any  one  circle  can  furnish  within  a  score  of  years, 
will  have  a  task  for  a  life-time.  For  sorrowful  incidents 
are  brief  and  swift  in  occurrence,  but  long  as  moonbeams, 
and  as  beautiful  in  recollection. 

Sometimes  we  linger  on  such  stories,  and  sit  till  the 
small  hours  grow  long,  remembering  how  one  and  an 
other  and  another  has  silently  entered  the  unknown 
country,  and  left  a  vacant  place  and  a  holy  memory. 

Some  old  men  that  were  fine  specimens  of  the  olden 
time  in  the  days  I  speak  of,  who  gathered  around  them 


OLD    FRIENDS.  281 

the  dignities,  and  honors,  and  rewards  of  good  long  lives, 
and  departed  in  peace  to  the  possession  of  better  inherit 
ances.  Some  young  and  gentle  ones  who  left  their  loves 
and  hopes,  and  all  the  bright  joyances  of  life  by  the  dark 
road  of  death.  Some  matrons  that  slept,  spite  of  the 
agonizing  voices  that  would  wake  them.  Some  strong 
young  men  that  acknowledged  the  power  of  decay,  and 
the  strength  of  bonds  of  dust,  that  stout  youth  could  not 
prevail  to  loosen. 

Doubtless,  to  some  it  has  appeared  strange  that  these 
pages  should  have  recorded  so  many  deaths ;  and  I  can 
only  explain  it  by  supposing  that  our  circle  has  been 
more  bereaved  within  the  years  that  we  remember,  than 
have  others. 

And  of  the  living  I  can  say  little,  for  they  like  not  to 
see  themselves  named  in  such  pages  as  these.  But  the 
dead  cannot  reproach  me  with  naming  them,  except  in 
dreams,  and  I  take  care  so  to  speak  of  them  that  I  have 
no  fear  of  night  visions.  And  the  dead,  their  fame,  their 
lives,  their  pleasantness,  and  their  gentleness,  all  belong 
to  us  who  live.  If  then  I  would  give  a  faithful  picture 
of  life  in  the  old  house,  I  must  tell  of  those  that  were,  or 
of  those  that  are  our  friends ;  and  since  I  may  not  speak 
much  of  those  now  surrounding  us,  lest  I  give  offence,  I 
have  told,  and  will  continue  to  tell,  of  those  who  have 
gone  from  us,  but  who  revisit  the  old  house  in  the  calm 
and  pleasant  evenings.  Thus  you  may  appreciate  some 
what  the  beauty  of  a  dim  firelight  in  the  library,  with  a 
silver  moonshine  lying  across  the  carpet,  and  the  curious 


282  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    RIVER. 

old  chairs  standing  in  shaded  corners,  into  which,  one 
after  another,  steal  the  forms  that  have  occupied  them  in 
other  days. 

Such  ghostly  visitants  never  frighten  us.  You  might 
think  the  evening  very  stupid,  were  you  to  see  us  keeping 
profound  silence  hour  after  hour,  as  we  do  sometimes. 
You  could  not  think  that  we  were  sleeping,  for  our  eyes 
never  close,  but  rove  around  the  room  incessantly,  seek 
ing  the  eyes  of  our  guests.  But  such  evenings  are  never 
stupid,  nor  sad.  The  memories  of  the  past  are  not  sor 
rowful,  though  that  past  be  full  of  sorrow.  There  is  al 
ways  something  to  cheer  in  it,  and  we  remember  it  cheer 
fully  ;  and  there  is  one  comfort,  even  a  sublimity,  in  the 
past.  It  is  its  immutability.  There  it  stands,  stern, 
calm,  changeless.  There  at  least  the  eye  and  the  heart 
may  rest,  assured  that  it  will  never  change,  that  what 
you  love  in  it  will  never  be  less  worth  loving,  its  beauty 
willbe  forever  radiant,  its  clouds  and  skies  grand  in  their 
immutable  gloom,  or  immeasurable  glory. 

I  call  into  yonder  old  carved  oak  chair  a  ghost,  and 
proceed  to  sketch  his  lineaments. 

Years  ago  I  had  a  friend  whose  name  is  recorded  on 
earth  only  on  his  grave-stone.  He  was  a  brave  boy,  of 
stout  heart  and  flashing  intellect.  He  was  my  junior  by 
a  year,  and  my  superior  in  everything.  His  heart  was 
warmer  and  less  selfish,  his  arm  stronger,  his  eye  clearer, 
and  his  life  better.  He  was  the  only  son  of  his  father, 
who  owned  a  large  place  within  a  mile  of  our  houses.  He 
had  a  sister,  whose  good  soul  was  the  guide  of  his  life. 


OLD    FRIENDS.  283 

and  if  I  mention  the  name  of  Minnie  Winter,  the  grand 
daughter  of  the  old  clergyman  and  daughter  of  an  older 
brother  of  Philip  Winter,  you  will  understand  all,  with 
out  my  writing  the  story  of  their  love. 

He  was  our  close  companion  in  younger  days,  and  ac 
companied  Joe  and  myself  in  many  of  our  wanderings. 

We  had  then  a  boat,  by  no  means  equal  to  the  Phan 
tom,  but  a  gallant  little  craft,  in  which  we  weathered  not 
a  few  storms.  In  one  of  our  longest  summer  cruises  he 
accompanied  us,  as  was  not  uncommon,  and  for  a  fortnight 
he  enjoyed  it  with  the  keenest  delight.  After  that  his 
eye  grew  dull,  and  he  seemed  to  be  listless  and  inactive, 
so  that  I  became  convinced  that  he  was  ill,  though  he 
stoutly  denied  it.  In  spite  of  his  assurances  we  put  the 
helm  up  for  home.  At  the  end  of  the  second  day  after 
that  he  gave  up  entirely,  and  took  to  his  berth.  I  grew 
exceedingly  anxious  and  remained  all  night  on  deck.  The 
breeze  was  fresh,  and  though  the  sea  ran  high,  the  little 
boat  flew  swiftly  through  it. 

Toward  daylight  Henry  crept  out  on  deck,  and  looked 
over  the  wild  sea.  Poor  boy.  He  was  in  a  raging  fever, 
and  the  sea-air  was  at  first  delicious,  but  then  it  chilled 
him,  and  wrapping  his  coat  around  him  he  rested  his  head 
on  the  taffrail,  and  asked  me  when  I  expected  to  reach 
home.  « 

"  To-night,  Harry,"  said  I;  "keep  up  your  spirits." 

"  To-night,"  said  he,  with  a  sort  of  convulsive  delight, 
"  why,  I  thought  we  were  two  days  out  yet." 

"  We  have  come  like  the  wind  itself  all  night,  and  if 


284  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    RIVER. 

this  breeze  holds  ten  hours  we  shall  be  under  the  bank 
at  home." 

His  joy  seemed  excessive,  and  I  believe  that  his  mind 
began  to  wander  from  that  moment,  for  his  next  words 
were  a  half  shout  of  exuberant  mirth,  and  then  he  sank 
into  a  stupor,  and  I  directed  the  men  to  carry  him  below. 
Pie  was  delirious  long  before  we  reached  home  that  night. 
During  an  illness  of  two  weeks  he  never  lost  the  idea  that 
he  was  still  at  sea,  and  the  dash  of  the  waves  was  con 
stantly  in  his  ears.  I  say  never  ;  it  was  not  till  the  last 
day  of  his  life  that  the  idea  left  him  at  all,  and  then  only 
for  a  little.  Minnie  and  his  sister  sat  by  him.  Minnie 
held  his  hand  and  bathed  his  forehead,  and  pressed  her 
lips  to  his  hot  cheek. 

"  How  she  rolls  !"  he  muttered.  "  How  she  rolls  ! 
Where's  the  wind  now  ?  Blowing  seaward  did  you  say  ? 
We  shall  never,  never  reach  land  again ;  never,  never  ! 
What  will  we  do  Minnie,  out  at  sea  in  this  craft,  and  the 
wind  blowing  off-shore  ?  Out  into  the  blue  sea,  and  the 
blue  waves  around  us,  and  the  blue  sky  above  us,  and  away, 

away,  on,  on ! Why,  this  is  strange.  I  thought  that  was 

a  wave,  and  its  a  mountain.  I  thought  that  house  was  a 
sail.  Isn't  it  queer  Minnie  that  I  shouldn't  know  that  I 
was  at  home  ?  I  have  been  dreaming  all  sorts  of  strange 
dreams  about  wandering  all  over  the  world  with  you,  and 
I  thought  we  were  at  sea,  and  those  blue  hills  seemed  to 
be  waves,  and  we  were  rocking  on  them." 

It  was  evident  that  his  mind  was  still  wandering,  for 
the  room  was  dark  and  no  hills  were  within  the  range  of 


OLD    FRIENDS.  285 

his  vision.  His  eye  gleamed  with  unnatural  light,  as  he 
continued  : 

"  It's  hot.  Summer  is  not  often  so  hot  on  the  river. 
I  say  Minnie,  let's  take  a  walk  down  toward  the  shore." 

He  ceased  again  for  awhile,  and  then  the  ocean  dream 
returned,  and  again  he  was  on  the  sea,  and  flying  swiftly 
from  the  shore.  An  hour  after  that  he  was  out  of  sight, 
and  the  waves  of  life  that  were  tossing  around  us  hid  him 
from  our  view. 

Minnie  Winter  has  searched  for  him  all  over  the  ocean 
of  life  since  then,  but  has  not  found  him.  Sometimes  she 
hears  a  glad  shout,  borne  to  her  across  the  waves,  and 
turns  toward  it,  for  she  knows  his  voice.  Sometimes  she 
catches  the  gleam  of  a  white  sail  on  the  horizon,  and  the 
glad  thrill  of  her  heart  tells  her  his  bark  floats  there. 
For  I  thank  God  that  the  horizon  of  life  is  the  horizon 
of  that  other  land  too,  and  sometimes,  often,  floating  on 
this  sea,  we  catch  sight  of  vessels  upon  that,  and  oftener 
hear  the  voyagers  as  they  sing  joyous  songs. 

I  was  out  on  a  knoll  near  the  house  toward  evening, 
just  before  the  moon  rose,  and,  lying  on  the  grass,  I  look 
ed  up  at  the  sky  as  the  stars  came  into  it.  Was  it  fancy, 
or  was  it  true,  that  I  heard  his  voice  again  as  I  heard  it 
in  the  last  words  that  he  uttered  before  his  reason  quite 
left  him.  It  floated,  rang  through  the  air  with  a  clear, 
triumphant  shout,  not  as  in  the  fevered  dreams  of  his 
dying  hour,  but  as  if  he  were  strong  again,  and  stood 
with  me  by  the  tiller  of  my  boat,  and  the  breeze  was 
fresh  on  the  starboard  quarter,  and  we  were  flying  swiftly, 


286  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    RIVER. 

joyously,  as  of  old.  It  must  have  been  my  fancy ;  for  I 
have  often,  since  he  died,  heard  a  melodious  cry  coming 
out  of  some  blessed  distance,  some  hallowed  dream-land, 
some  far-away  resting-place,  shouting  those  same  glad 
words — "  On,  on,  keep  her  up ;  keep  her  up  ;  how  she 
flies  through  the  blue.  We  shall  reach  land  to-night,  and 
then,  hurra  for  home  and  Minnie  !" 

Lo,  the  ghost  of  my  friend  hath  departed,  and  now  in 
the  deep  shadow  of  the  heavy  curtain,  sits  another  form. 

The  moon  to-night  is  shining  on  my  forehead,  and  on 
my  paper,  and  my  hand,  and  my  pen ;  but  its  silver  light 
falls  on  thy  grave,  thou  fairest  of  our  childhood's  friends ! 
In  such  a  night  "  I  cannot  make  thee  dead."  I  know  the 
grave  has  won  the  clay,  I  know  the  silence  that  has  fallen 
on  the  melodious  voice,  the  solemn  seal  that  closes  the 
ruby  lips.  Yet  from  the  years,  the  hoarded  years,  come 
faintly  now  the  songs  and  sounds  of  younger  days,  and, 
among  them  all,  that  voice  is  pure  and  clear  and  very 
melodious,  and  it  floats  away  from  me  now  into  the  far 
deep  sky.  Thou  art  gone  to  G-od !  Pure  as  an  autumn 
morning  star-beam,  thou  didst  not  fade  from  the  sky  ! 
Thou  art  only  hidden  from  us  by  the  grosser  light  which 
our  senses  cannot  penetrate,  and  when  the  night  comes  to 
us  we  shall  see  thee  again  ! 

If  you  could  go  with  me  now  to  a  glen  not  far  away, 
and  a  willow-shaded  nook,  I  would  point  out  to  you  the 
very  spot  where,  years  ago,  there  stood  a  rude  bench,  on 
which  many  times  I  have  seen  the  fair  girl  I  now  write 


OLD    FRIENDS.  287 

of  sitting,  and  by  which  I  once  saw  her  kneeling.  That 
old  cottage  under  the  hill  which  has  echoed  many  a  time 
the  sounds  of  our  young  and  glad  voices  when  Joe  Willis 
and  I  knew  little  of  the  hardships  of  the  world,  and 
loved  with  all  the  impulsive  love  of  childish  days,  is  occu 
pied  by  strangers,  and  its  broad  hall  and  large  rooms  now 
ring  to  the  laughter  of  those  that  knew  not  her  whose 
gentle  spirit  haunts  their  very  chambers. 

She  was  as  pleasant  as  a  dream.  I  was  a  mere  boy 
then,  and  with  the  privilege  of  a  boy  and  a  near  relative, 
used  to  lie  at  her  feet  on  the  grass,  and  gaze  into  her 
face,  and  watch  the  play  of  her  exquisite  features.  It 
was  there  I  learned  first  how  high,  and  pure,  and  wor 
shipful,  humanity  may  be. 

She  has  passed  now  into  the  presence  of  her  Grod,  and 
if  to-night  she  is  seated  on  the  margin  of  some  glassy 
lake,  or  by  the  bank  of  a  prattling  stream  of  the  living 
waters  of  that  land,  and  yet  can  hear,  as  I  believe  she 
can,  the  words  which  our  souls  whisper,  if  our  lips  do 
not,  then  am  I  sure  she  smiles  as  she  listens,  and  looks 
up  to  God  and  blesses  him  with  new  songs,  that  she  was 
permitted  to  pass  hence,  as  she  was,  long,  long  ago. 
And  yet  she  loves  us !  The  blessed  ones  forget  us  not, 
and  she  has  been  here  to-night,  and  has  kissed  my  fore 
head  as  of  old. 

And  when  I  look  into  the  eyes  of  a  comparative  stran 
ger,  which  nevertheless  have  a  familiar  gleam,  I  cannot 
resist  the  impulse  to  gaze,  forgetful  quite  of  the  long 
lapse  of  years,  and  the  consequent  decay  of  beauty. 


288  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    RIVER. 

None  who  were  so  lovely  then  remain  as  lovely  now. 
The  lines  of  life  are  deeply  marked  on  many  counte 
nances,  and  griefs  and  cares  have  hollowed  their  rosy 
cheeks,  and  dimmed  their  merry  eyes.  The  voices  of 
those  days  are  pleasant  only  in  memory.  Sometimes, 
indeed,  a  child,  (the  child  of  one  once  young  and  lovely,) 
will  warble  a  note  from  an  old  song  that  with  magical 
effect  recalls  the  hushed  melodies  of  our  childhood.  But 
a  look,  a  thought,  a  heart-pang,  teaches  us  that  we  are 
changed,  and  they  are  changed,  and  all  is  changed ;  and 
then,  oh !  how  we  long  for  the  time  when  there  shall  be 
no  more  changes. 

She  was  young  and  beautiful.  What  need  to  add  that 
she  was  loved.  Surely  I  need  not  add  that  she  loved,  for 
such  as  she  live  on  affection,  and  die  for  lack  of  it.  Her 
father  devoted  his  fortune  and  his  life  to  her ;  and  she 
was  heiress  to  a  large  estate.  As  might  be  expected,  she 
had  numberless  suitors  of  every  rank  and  variety.  I 
cannot  now  remember  all  of  them,  although  I  then  kept 
the  run  of  them  tolerably  well.  But  of  all,  there  were 
only  two  that  appeared  to  have  any  prospect  of  success ; 
and  the  village  gossips  were  occupied  in  discussing  their 
relative  chances. 

Frank  R was  the  gayest,  best-hearted  fellow  in 

the  world ;  and  had  you  seen  him  on  his  horse  by  the 

side  of  Sarah  D ,  you  would  have  said  he  was  made 

for  her,  so  wild  was  his  laugh,  and  so  joyous  her  response. 
Yet,  had  you  been  behind  the  closed  shutter  of  the  win 
dow  in  the  front  of  the  large  white  house  on  the  hill,  as 


OLD    FRIENDS.  289 

they  rode  by,  and  had  you  there  watched  the  compressed 
lip,  the  broad,  calm  forehead,  the  pale  face,  and  the 

speaking  eye  of  Joseph  S ,  as  he  saw  them  passing, 

you  would  have  prayed  to  God  that  that  fair  girl  might 
belong  to  that  noble  man,  even  as  I,  a  boy,  then  prayed. 

God  has  answered  my  prayers.  When  the  long  way 
was  travelled  over,  and  the  rugged  and  difficult  steep  sur 
mounted — when  her  fairy  foot  was  pressed  on  the  rock  at 
the  summit  of  the  hill  of  life,  and  her  eyes  gazed  into  the 
blue  deep  sky  with  longing  gaze,  there,  even  there,  be 
yond  the  blue,  his  outstretched  arms  received  her,  and 
his  embrace  was  Heaven  ! 

Go  preach  to  blocks  and  stones,  ye  who  believe  that 
love  is  of  the  clay !  Go  preach  to  the  dead,  ye  who  deny 
the  immortality  of  the  affections.  Go  reason  with  trees, 
or  hills,  or  images  of  wood,  or  with  your  own  motionless, 
lifeless,  icy  souls,  ye  who  believe  that,  because  there  is 
no  marrying  yonder,  there  shall  be  no  embracing,  or  be 
cause  we  may  not  use  the  gentle  words  "  my  wife,"  we 
may  not  clasp  these  sanctified  forms  in  our  own  holy 
arms  !  T  tell  you,  man,  that  immortality  would  be  a 
glorious  cheat,  if  with  our  clay  died  all  our  first  affec 
tions.  I  tell  you  that  annihilation  would  be  heaven,  if  I 
believed  that  when  my  head  at  length  rests  on  its  coffin- 
pillow,  and  my  lips  sink  to  the  silence  and  repose  of 
death,  these  loving  eyes  will  never  look  into  mine  again, 
this  pure  clasp  never  be  around  my  neck,  this  holy  caress 
never  bless  me  more  ! 

But  see  how  I  hasten  in  advance  of  my  story.  And 
13 


290  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    KIVER. 

yet,  like  Canning's  knife-grinder,  I  remember  now  that  I 
have  no  story  to  tell,  or  at  best  it  is  a  simple  history. 

She  loved  Joe.  His  calm  and  earnest  way  of  loving 
her,  won  her  whole  soul.  He  did  not  say  much  to  her 
in  company,  nor  of  her,  but  when  they  were  alone,  or  only 
some  of  the  children  near,  his  low  voice  would  be  musical, 
and  she  sat  entranced  with  its  eloquence.  I  have  seen 
them  seated  on  the  bench  by  the  side  of  the  stream,  and 
have  heard  him  lead  her  gentle  soul,  step  by  step,  with 
him  from  earth  to  stars,  and  then  from  star  to  star,  until 
she  seemed  to  be  in  heaven  with  him,  and  listening  to  the 
praises  of  the  angels. 

I  am  unable  to  tell  how  it  happened  that  Joseph 
S left  his  profession  (which  had  been  law),  and  en 
tered  the  ministry.  The  father  of  Sarah  D was  one 

of  a  small  class  of  men,  who  not  only  deny  the  truths 
of  our  most  holy  creed,  but  take  every  opportunity  to 
cast  ridicule  on  its  teachers.  It  was,  therefore,  with  great 
pain  that  his  daughter  observed  his  coldness  and  rude 
ness  to  Joseph  S ,  and  she  was  not  surprised,  how 
ever  much  she  was  grieved,  when  an  open  rupture  ren 
dered  the  suspension  of  his  visits  at  the  house  absolutely 
necessary. 

They  had  never  spoken  of  love.  Each  knew  the  secret 
of  the  other's  perfect  affection,  and  what  need  then  of 
words  to  tell  it.  It  would  have  been  but  the  repetition 
of  hackneyed  phrases.  And  yet  there  is  no  music  in  the 
world  so  sweet  as  those  three  words,  "  I  love  you,"  from 
the  lips  we  love  to  kiss.  But  the  father  of  our  gentle 


OLD    FRIENDS.  291 

friend  had  feared  the  existence  of  some  bond  between 
them,  and  peremptorily  required  his  daughter  to  break 
it  if  it  did  exist.  She  replied  to  him,  relating  the  sim 
ple  truth,  and  he  desired  her  to  refuse  thenceforward  to 
see  or  speak  to  Joseph.  A  month  of  deeper  pain  than 
can  well  be  imagined  succeeded  this  command,  during 
which  they  did  not  meet. 

It  was  on  a  moony  night  in  August  that  she  walked  out 
with  me  (then  a  boy  five  years  her  junior),  and  sat  down 
on  the  bench  by  the  side  of  the  stream.  The  air  was 
clear,  the  sky  serene,  and  no  sound  disturbed  us ;  but  the 
soft  voice  of  the  wind  among  the  tree-tops  made  a  pleas 
ant  music,  and  we  listened  and  were  silent.  The  stillness 
was  broken  by  the  voice  of  Joseph  S . 

I  will  pass  over  that-  scene.  I  dare  not  attempt  a 
description  of  it.  It  was  my  first  lesson  in  human  suffer 
ing,  and  though  I  have  learned  it  over  and  over  since 
then,  yet  I  have  never  seen  more  agony  than  those  two 
felt,  as  they  parted  that  night  to  meet  no  more  on  earth. 

He  bowed  his  lips  to  her  forehead,  and  murmured  the 
solemn  word  "  Forever."  She  woke  at  that  word,  and 
exclaimed  with  startling  vehemence,  "  No,  no,  there  is 
no  such  word,  Joe." 

"  We  shall  not  meet  again  on  earth,  my  gentle  one." 

"  And  what  is  earth  ?  Her  tall  form  grew  more 
queenly,  and  her  dark  eye  flashed  divinely,  as  she  rose 
and  exclaimed,  in  clear  and  silvery  tones :  u  And  what  is 
earth  ?  These  things  must  end.  I  will  name  a  tryst, 
dear  Joe,  and  you  shall  keep  it.  If  you.  pass  first  into 


292  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    RIVER. 

the  other  land,  wait  for  me  on  the  bank,  and  if  I  go 
hence  before  you,  I  will  linger  on  the  other  shore  until 
you  come.  Will  you  remember  ?" 

"  I  will  live  and  die  in  this  memory." 

She  lifted  her  face  to  his,  and  her  arms  to  his  neck, 
and  they  clung  together  in  a  long,  passionate  embrace. 
Their  lips  did  not  separate,  but  were  pressed  close  toge 
ther,  until  he  felt  her  form  cold,  and  her  clasp  relaxed, 
and  he  laid  her  gently  down  on  the  old  seat,  bowed  over 
her  a  moment,  in  prayer,  and  was  gone.  I  heard  him 
say,  "  Take  care  of  her,  Phil,"  and  so  T  strove  to  recall 
the  life  that  had  gone  from  her  lips  and  cheeks  and  eyes. 
It  came  slowly,  and  she  woke  as  we  wake  the  morning 
after  death  has  entered  our  charmed  circle,  with  an  op 
pression  on  the  brain,  and  a  swimming  swollen  senseless 
ness  of  soul. 

At  length  she  remembered  all ;  and  raised  herself  with 
a  half-articulated  exclamation  of  agony,  broken  by  a  sob; 
then  fell  on  her  knees  by  the  bench,  and  buried  her  face 
in  her  hands,  and  remained  thus  for  nearly  half  an  hour. 

When  she  arose,  her  face  was  calm  and  serene.  It 
wore  that  same  exalted  look  until  she  died. 

I  think  she  took  cold  that  night,  she  was  never  well 
afterward,  and  the  next  winter  she  passed  at  the  south, 
returning  in  the  spring,  very  fragile,  but  very  beautiful. 

Joseph  S was  sent  abroad  by  one  of  the  Boards 

of  Missions  of  the  Church,  but  his  health  failed,  and  he 
resigned  his  commission,  while  he  travelled  through  the 
Eastern  world. 


OLD    FRIENDS.  293 

Three  years  fled  with  their  usual  swiftness.  To  Sarah 

D they  were  very  slow  and  painful  years,  yet  she 

was  happy  in  her  quiet  way,  and  no  one  dreamed  of  the 
strange  tryst  she  was  longing  to  keep  on  the  other  side 
of  that  dark  river,  which  men  so  shrink  from.  She 
grew  feebler  daily  as  the  summer  and  autumn  advanced, 
and  in  December  she  was  evidently  dying. 

One  day  her  mother  had  been  out  of  the  house,  per 
haps  making  calls  ;  she  returned  at  evening,  and  among 
other  incidents  of  news  which  she  had  learned,  she  men 
tioned  to  Sarah  the  death  of  her  old  friend  Joseph 
S . 

The  fair  girl  was  reclining  in  her  large  arm-chair  look 
ing  out  through  the  closed  windows  at  the  snow  on  the 
ground,  and  the  pure  moonlight  which  silvered  it.  There 
was  no  startling  emotion  visible  as  her  mother  mentioned 
the  fact  which  to  her  was  the  most  solemn,  yet  most  joy 
ful  news  the  world  could  give ;  for  now,  how  much  nearer 
was  their  meeting !  I  saw  a  smile  flash  across  her  face  as 
the  joyful  news  reached  her  ear.  I  saw  her  lips  move  as 
if  she  invited  even  then  his  spiritual  embrace.  I  saw  her 
forehead  raised  to  feel  the  caress  which  I  know  she  felt ! 
She  was  silent  for  many  minutes,  and  then  spoke  in  feeble, 
yet  very  musical  accents,  and  I,  boyishly,  wept  aloud  ! 
Then  she  smiled,  and  looked  at  me  with  finger  upraised, 
and  said,  "Wait  a  little  while  longer,  dear  Phil."  And 
then,  after  a  moment,  she  said,  "  Mother,  is  the  snow 
very  deep  •?" 

"  Not  very,  dear;  why  did  you  ask  ?" 


294  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    RIVER. 

"  Because,  if  it  were  deep,  I  thought  it  would  be  diffi 
cult  for  old  Mr.  Smith  to  find  our  lot  in  the  grave 
yard.  Are  all  the  head-stones  covered,  mother  ?" 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Sarah  ?  What  if  they  are 
covered  ?" 

"  Mother,  dear,  it  is  useless  to  conceal  it  from  our 
selves,  or  from  one  another.  You  know,  and  I  quite  as 
well,  that  I  am  dying.  I  have  not  wished  to  live,  only  for 
one  thing  I  did  long  for  life,  and  I  dreaded  to  meet  death 
all  alone  !  but  now  I  shall  not.  Philip  will  tell  you  what 
I  mean  when  I  am  gone.  Yes,  gone,  dear  mother.  I 
shall  not  be  here  any  longer.  You  will  be  here,  and 
father,  and  you  will  rise  and  walk  about,  and  visit,  and  go 
in  and  out,  and  sleep  and  wake  again,  and  so  on  day  after 
day,  and  I  shall  have  no  part  any  longer  in  your  cares 

and  joys; — Dear  Mother" and  as  she  uttered  the 

last  two  words,  she  put  her  arms  around  her  mother's 
neck  and  kissed  her  fondly,  and  sank  back  into  her  chair 
again.  I  sat  at  her  feet  watching  her  matchless  features. 
A  smile  was  flitting  across  them,  now  there,  now  gone, 
yet  each  time  it  appeared,  it  lingered  longer  than  before, 
until  it  became  fixed,  and  so  holy,  so  very  holy,  that  I 
grew  bewildered  as  I  gazed,  and  a  strange  tremor  passed 
through  my  body. 

The  breath  of  peace  was  fanning  her  glorious  brow  ! 
Her  head  was  bowed  a  very  little  forward,  and  a  tress  es 
caping  from  its  bonds,  fell  by  the  side  of  her  pure  white 
temple,  and  close  to  her  just  opened  lips.  It  hung  there 
motionless !  No  breath  disturbed  its  repose !  She  slept 


EUTHANASIA.  295 

as  an  angel  might  sleep,  having  accomplished  the  mission 
of  her  God. 

Oftentimes  since  then  I  have  heard  a  voice  from  heaven 
as  melodious  as  that  which  the  prophet  of  old  heard  de 
claring  the  blessing  of  the  righteous  dead !  To-night  I 
have  been  hearing  it — it  is  faint,  indeed,  but  clear,  and 
oh  how  thrilling,  and  it  sounds  like  her  voice  chanting  a 
grand  old  psalm  ! 

"  And  thou  shalt  walk  in  pure  white  light, 

With  kings  and  priests  abroad  ! 
And  thou  shalt  summer  high  in  bliss, 
Upon  the  hills  of  God !" 

I  know  not  under  what  palm  tree  of  Chaldea,  or  by 
the  shadow  of  what  rock  in  Hindoostan,  or  under  what 
ruin  in  time-hallowed  Egypt,  the  clay  which  once  was  my 
friend,  of  mine  own  kindred,  awaits  the  resurrection.  I 
have  knelt  in  the  silvery  moonsheen  of  the  highlands  by 
the  grave  of  that  other  friend  of  early,  holy  years !  But 
when,  as  last  night,  Joe  and  I  speak  of  them,  our  thoughts 
linger  not  long,  either  at  the  one  grave,  or  at  the  other. 
We  only  think  of  the  rending  veil  and  the  embrace  which 
awaited  her  when  she  became  an  angel ! 

But  there  are  some  friends  of  later  years  than  those  I 
have  named,  who  are  now  but  memories.  Of  the  old 
families  I  have  mentioned  as  remaining  in  the  neighbor 
hood,  that  of  my  cousin,  Mr.  Wilton,  is  to  us  one  of  the 
most  valuable.  I  have  returned  this  very  evening  from 
his  house,  where  I  have  been  unexpectedly  and  sadly  de- 


296  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    RIVER. 

tained  for  more  than  a  week,  by  the  most  mournful  task 
of  life,  that  of  watching  till  one  of  the  angels  of  the  earth 
is  permitted,  after  much  pain,  weariness,  and  longing,  to 
escape  into  the  still  and  more  congenial  atmosphere  of 
heaven.  One  more  is  added  to  the  list  of  our  departed 
friends,  and  at  the  risk  of  wearying  my  readers  with  sad 
stories  of  death-scenes,  I  will  add  this  one  here,  for  it 
was  verily  Euthanasia. 

She  is  gone!  No  longer  shrinking  from  the  winter 
wind,  or  lifting  her  calm  pure  forehead  to  the  summer's 
kiss,  no  longer  gazing  with  her  blue  and  glorious  eyes 
into  a  far-off  sky,  no  longer  yearning  with  a  holy  heart 
for  heavem,  no  longer  toiling  painfully  along  the  path,  up 
ward  and  upward  to  the  everlasting  Rock  on  which  are 
based  the  walls  of  the  city  of  the  Most  High ;  no  longer 
here,  she  is  there ;  gazing,  seeing,  knowing,  loving  as  the 
blessed  only  see,  and  know,  and  love. 

Earth  has  one  angel  less,  and  heaven  one  more  since 
yesterday.  Already,  kneeling  at  the  throne,  she  has  re 
ceived  her  welcome,  and  is  resting  on  the  bosom  of  her 
Saviour.  If  human  love  have  power  to  penetrate  the  veil, 
(and  hath  it  not?)  then  there  are  yet  living  here  a  few  who 
have  the  blessedness  of  knowing  that  an  angel  loves  them. 

Her  sister  has  not  moved  from  the  coffin-side  since  she 
was  placed  in  it.  The  bright-eyed  boy  has  sobbed  him 
self  to  sleep ;  and  Effie,  her  pet,  is  even  now  demanding 
leave  to  kiss  aunt  Effie's  lips  once  more ;  and  yet  again 
and  again,  while  her  big  tears  drop  on  the  marble  cheek 
of  the  silent  and  beautiful  sleeper. 


EUTHANASIA. 


297 


Twilight  has  fallen  on  the  lonely  earth.  The  stars  are 
mournfully  clear  and  calm.  A  little  while  ago,  as  I 
stood  on  the  piazza,  a  wail  as  of  a  soul  in  agony  fell  on 
my  ear.  That  wail  that  Joe  and  I  were  speaking  of  not 
long  since.  It  was  the  wind  in  the  lofty  pine  trees 
shading  the  house ;  and  the  wail  changed  sadly,  and  then 
with  a  wild  melody,  into  a  sound  as  of  the  far-off  songs 
of  the  triumphant  ones  who  may  hold  her  now  in  their 
embraces;  and  while  I  listened,  it  passed  away,  away 
among  the  stars. 

As  I  entered  the  door  again,  I  heard  a  sudden  burst 
of  grief,  and  looking  up,  saw  old  Simon,  the  colored 
coachman,  sitting  in  one  of  the  large  hall  chairs,  with  his 
face  between  his  hands,  and  his  head  bowed  quite  down 
between  his  knees,  weeping  uncontrollably.  G-oing  up  the 
stairs  to  my  own  room,  I  perceived  the  door  of  the  little 
reception-room  on  the  landing  place  standing  open ;  and 

turning  in,  I  met  Mr.  V ,  the  young  rector  of  the 

parish ;  and  as  he  advanced  to  take  my  hand,  he  burst 
into  tears,  and  could  not  speak. 

You  might  search  the  country  through,  and  find  no  one 
so  universally  loved  as  Erne  Wilton.  She  is  mourned 
sincerely  by  all.  More  tears  have  been  shed  in  the  vil 
lage  to  day,  than  in  months  before,  for  every  family  has 
lost  a  friend. 

A  message  came  over  to  the  hall  last  week  that  she 

was  failing ;  but  when,  in  accordance  with  the  wish  of  her 

father,  who  has  always  depended  much  on  my  friendship 

and  support  in  hours  of  trouble,  I  drove  over  to  see  her, 

13* 


298  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    RIVER. 

I  was  astonished  at  the  great  change  that  had  taken 
place  since  I  last  saw  her ;  and  as  it  was  impossible  to 
leave  her,  I  sent  back  my  horse  with  a  note  to  Joe  that 
I  should  remain  with  Mr.  Wilton  until  the  end.  It  was 
her  wish  also.  "  You  alone  know  my  heart,"  said  she, 
"  and  to  you  alone,  in  these  last  days  of  my  lingering,  I 
would  talk  of  the  blessed  visions  that  beguiled  my  young 
er  days,  of  the  pleasant  dreams  and  hopes  I  then  cher 
ished,  and  of  the  better  and  brighter  hope  I  now  have  of 
meeting  and  realizing  them  all — those  dreams  and  vis 
ions,  I  mean,  in  the  land  to  which  I  go."  So  I  lingered 
by  her  side  until  she  left  me  there ;  and  I  lingered  a  day 
longer  to  watch  her  clay,  and  to  offer  such  consolations 
as  might  be,  to  those  who  have  better  right  to  mourn  for 
her  than  I. 

She  was  a  child  of  fairy  beauty,  marvellously  so  in  the 
lustre  of  her  deep  blue  eyes.  As  she  grew  older,  there 
was  observable  an  increasing  purity  of  complexion,  and 
at  the  age  of  fifteen  her  face  was  "dazzlingly  beautiful." 
Her  hair  was  dark,  not  black,  but  clustered  in  tresses, 
or  masses,  rather  than  curls,  around  her  forehead.  She 
usually  drew  it  back  plainly,  however,  so  as  to  expose  a 
massive  temple  very  pure  and  white,  and  a  brow  that  was 
strangely  calm  and  imposing  in  so  young  a  child. 

A  painful  disease  of  the  spine  began  about  this  time  to 
be  perceptible,  and  the  great  wealth  of  her  father  was  de 
voted  td  visiting  all  parts  of  the  world  in  search  of  a  cure 
for  the  terible  malady.  This  cure  was  but  partially  effect 
ual,  and  at  the  age  of  eighteen  Effie's  form  had  lost  its 


EUTHANASIA.  299 

perfect  shape  and  was  in  fact  distorted.  She  knew  it. 
She  knew  that  she  was  no  longer  queenly.  She  knew 
that  her  noble  forehead,  and  her  speaking  eye,  and  her 
finely-shaped  head  contrasted  fearfully  with  her  body; 
but  she  never  murmured  at  God's  will,  only  asking  him 
to  teach  her  how  to  remove  her  soul  farther  and  farther 
from  her  body,  and  from  all  things  of  earth.  Her  life 
became  an  exquisite  study.  It  was  worth  all  the  ro 
mances  in  the  world,  to  see  that  noble  girl  schooling  herself 
into  a  forgetfulness  of  the  things  she  once  loved  so  well, 
and  into  a  knowledge  of  those  higher  and  holier  things 
which  those  who  have  not  long  to  live  know  how  to  ap 
preciate.  Her  success  was  gradual,  but  certain.  There 
were  as  you  may  well  imagine,  not  a  few  struggles  of  the 
spirit,  not  a  few  suppressed  griefs,  not  a  few  nights  passed 
in  wakeful  and  prayerful  agony.  There  are  struggles 
of  this  sort  going  on  in  the  world  daily  of  which  men  do 
not  dream.  There  are  rivers  of  woe,  pent  up  in  great  broad 
souls,  until  they  spread  to  oceans  ;  and  storms  are  blow 
ing  over  them,  and  tempests  toss  them,  and  they  dash 
wildly  to  and  fro  under  sunless,  moonless,  starless  skies. 
And  then  the  hand  of  Grod  is  stretched  over  them,  and 
the  "  Peace,  be  still "  of  his  melodious  voice  floats  above 
them  on  a  gentle  wind>  and  sunny  days  and  nights  not 
starless,  resume  their  alternation  across  those  souls. 

So  it  was  with  her.  And  though  the  ocean  never  sub 
sided,  yet  the  voice  of  (rod  had  been  heard  to  say,  "  thus 
far  and  no  farther  shalt  thou  go,"  and  the  waves  obeyed 
Him. 


800  THE    OLD    HOUSE   BY   THE   RIVER. 

Who  could  help  loving  her  ?  Imagine  her  then  at 
nineteen  the  idol  of  her  father  and  of  a  brother  and  sis 
ter,  each  one  of  whom  would  have  won  your  love  in  spite 
of  you,  and  tell  me  if  there  be  in  all  your  knowledge,  a 
picture  of  more  sublime  and  perfect  beauty. 

But  there  remained  a  cup  for  her  to  drink  which  was 
more  bitter  than  all  she  had  tasted  before.  I  know  that 
I  have  already  in  this  volume  rendered  myself  liable  to 
be  laughed  at  by  some,  and  scoffed  at  by  others,  for  the 
opinions  I  have  indicated  about  human  love.  Be  it  so. 
I  know  no  subject  in  the  range  of  my  pen  which  I  better 
love  to  linger  on,  and  I  ask  no  readers  but  such  as  believe 
with  me  tha-t  God's  last  gift  to  Eden  was  given  with  a 
smile.  Scoff  on  !  But  could  you  stand  with  me  to-night 
by  the  coffin  of  Erne  Wilton,  and  look  at  the  slumber 
which  is  so  holy  and  so  profound,  and  know  her  history 
as  I  know  it,  you  would  seek  some  still  place  where  you 
could  ponder  on  the  lesson  of  that  life  and  its  end,  and 
you  would  not  again  deny  that  there  are  in  this  world 
many  wrecks  of  early  hopes  and  early  aspirations,  many 
fallen  temples  in  which  young  hearts  have  worshipped 
fervently,  many  altar-fires  gone  out,  nay,  many  crumbling 
altars  on  which  lie  the  ashes  of  high  hearts  that  were 
burned  for  incense  there. 

He  who  loved  Effie  Wilton  deserved  her  love,  but  that 
was  all.  He  never  knew  even  that  much.  She  had 
always  received  him  as  a  friend,  but  never  as  a  lover. 
He  used  to  read  to  her,  and  she  has  told  me  of  the  throb- 
bings  of  her  heart  when  his  fine  voice  gave  such  feeling 


EUTHANASIA.  301 

expression  to  the  songs  of  Uhland,  or  the  divine  min 
strelsy  of  Goethe.  I  betray  no  confidence  now  when  I 
say  that  she  loved  him,  for  he  knows  it  now,  though  yes 
terday  he  did  not.  She  told  him  herself  last  night,  and 
this  morning  I  handed  him  a  package  from  her  which 
contains,  I  doubt  not,  a  fuller  story  than  I  can  give. 

Briefly  then,  she  knew  that  death  was  her  only  inherit 
ance.  There  was  a  voice  within  her  warning  her  of  that. 
She  determined  resolutely,  nobly,  to  resist  his  desire  to 
link  his  life  to  hers.  "  If  I  live  three  years  longer,  I 
will  marry  him,"  said  she  to  me  one  day. 

"  And  if  he  changes  ?" 

"  Out  on  you,  my  friend !  You  wrong  his  nobleness. 
He  will  never  change." 

She  was  right.  This  conversation  with  me  was  after 
he  had  made  known  his  love.  The  communication  was 
to  her  the  most  stunning  blow  she  had  received.  She 
had  no  idea  of  it,  until  one  evening  when  she  was  walk 
ing  under  the  great  trees  in  the  park,  with  her  shawl 
wrapped  around  her,  although  it  was  a  summer  evening, 
and  leaning,  as  was  her  wont,  somewhat  heavily  on  his 
arm.  His  voice  grew  tremulous  and  very  low,  and  at 
length  the  story  of  his  love  was  told  in  a  few  swift  words. 
He  felt  her  tremble  at  the  first,  then  she  pressed  closer 
to  him,  and  closer,  and  closer,  and  his  arm  stole  around 
her,  and  at  the  last  word  he  bent  over  to  look  into  her 
face,  and  held  her  up  in  his  arms.  She  had  fainted.  He 
carried  her  hastily  to  the  house,  made  some  hurried  ex 
cuse,  and  she  was  at  length  restored,  and  retired.  Next 


302  THB    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THB    RIVER. 

day  she  wrote  to  him  a  carefully-worded  letter,  and  the 
next  day  he  left  for  Europe. 

Sneer  or  scoff  if  you  dare,  hack  of  the  world,  whose 
soul  is  broken  and  galled,  and  made  utterly  worthless  by 
the  harness  you  have  been  working  in  so  long !  Sneer  or 
scoff  at  her,  if  you  dare  !  Your  God  disdained  not  to  be 
with  her  in  her  agony,  and  His  strong  arm  was  around 
her  all  the  night,  and  thenceforth  all  along  her  pilgrim 
path,  until  He  drew  her  closer,  close  to  His  breast ;  and 
she  rests  there — oh,  how  peacefully — to-night ! 

She  grew  feeble  so  slowly  that  it  was  scarcely  noticed, 
and  she  spoke  little  of  it.  It  was  a  blessing  to  sit  and 
look  into  her  meek  and  saintly  eyes.  She  read  much, 
and  rode  out  in  the  carriage  daily,  visiting  the  poor  when 
able,  and  bestowing  her  smiles  wherever  she  went. 

Two  years  more  stole  from  many  a  village  maiden's 
cheek  its  bloom,  but  she  grew  more  beautiful  as  she  faded 
away. 

At  length  S returned  from  Europe,  and  was  again 

at  her  side.  Six  months  more  passed,  and  she  no  longer 
left  the  house.  When  I  went  over  to  the  house,  last 
week,  she  welcomed  me  with  a  pleasant  smile  as  she  lay 
on  a  couch  in  the  large  parlor,  saying,  "  Ah  !  you  are 
conic,  whom  I  much  wanted  to  see." 

Last  night  she  was  evidently  dying.  At  nine  o'clock 

S was  sent  for,  by  her  request,  and  she  saw  him 

alone.  When  we  were  again  admitted  to  her  room,  he 
was  seated  on  her  bedside,  holding  her  hand  in  his  own, 
and  he  looked  up  at  us  with  a  mournful  smilo  aa  we 


EUTHANASIA.  303 

entered.  He  had  discovered  his  right  to  hold  that  hand, 
and  to  be  the  last  on  earth  to  give  her  up  to  heaven. 

Were  I  to  paint  the  scene  which  that  room  presented, 
I  should  make  but  a  miserable  caricature.  It  was  not  to 
be  painted.  There  were  tones  that  would  be  lacking,  and 
varying  expressions  of  countenance,  and  flitting  smiles  of 
heavenly  beauty  and  sweetness.  Then  there  were  sacred 
words  of  love,  and  some  sublime  verses  of  an  old  hymn 
chaunted  in  the  silver  voice  that  was  next  hour  to  be 
among  the  purest  of  the  Seraphim ;  and  there  were 
kisses  and  farewell  words,  yet  not  like  other  farewell 
words,  as  if  she  were  going  and  yet  not  going ;  and  there 
was  a  long  embrace,  and  a  whisper  of  the  matchless  lips, 
and  a  faint  kiss ;  and  then  we  knew  that  God  loved  her 
better  than  we,  and  had  gathered  her  to  his  holy  assem 
bly. 

We  will  bury  her  in  the  old  church-yard  when  the 
Sabbath  evening  twilight  comes  down,  for  so  she  wished 
it.  We  will  plant  flowers  there,  too,  and  watch  them 
carefully,  and  not  without  tears,  so  that  the  stranger  who 
passes  her  grave  may  read  her  name,  and  say  that  some 
one  lives  who  loved  her.  There  the  village  maidens  will 
lead  their  rustic  lovers,  and  tell  them  the  story  of  her 
holy  life,  and  pledge  above  her  repose  that  love,  of  whose 
joy  she  (thou,  angel  girl,  knowest  how  true  this  is !)  died 
ignorant. 

Thither,  should  God  ever  give  to  me  one  of  gentle 
faith  to  cling  with  woman's  love  to  me,  thither  I  would 
direct  her  footsteps  in  that  hour  of  all  hours  most 


304  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    RIVER. 

sacred,  and  as  the  Sabbath  stars  come  into  the  sky,  look 
up  to  heaven  from  her  resting-place,  and  pray  for  such 
strength  to  live  and  to  die  as  was  graciously  given  to 
Erne  Wilton. 


XV. 

f  aUr  f.ears. 


FOR  a  week  the  rain  had  poured  down  without  ceas 
ing,  and  the  streams  had  risen  beyond  all  precedent. 
Never  had  there  been  such  a  freshet  within  the  recollec 
tion  of  Jacob  Stimson,  the  father  of  Hugh  the  village 
landlord,  and  Jacob  was  by  far  the  oldest  inhabitant  left 
in  the  county.  At  length  the  storm  was  over,  and  on 
the  seventh  afternoon  from  its  commencement,  the  sun 
broke  out  through  the  clouds,  and  flooded  the  valleys  and 
the  mountain  sides  with  indescribable  glory.  I  had  been 
waiting  for  a  pleasant  day  to  drive  over  to  the  village ; 
and,  taking  the  box-wagon  and  the  bay  horses,  I  drove 
down  the  valley,  and  up  the  long  street  to  the  store ;  and 
while  Stephen  sat  outside,  I  went  in  to  make  some  small 
purchases. 

The  group  of  worthies  who  sat  on  the  counter  with 
their  feet  swinging,  or  on  the  heads  of  nail  kegs,  and  the 
edges  of  fcoxes  of  goods,  was  a  group  that  I  desired  not 
to  be  among;  but  my  entrance  seemed  opportune  to 
them,  and  a  subject  of  debate  was  referred  to  me  for  an 
opinion.  Pending  my  delivery  of  this,  a  dark  cloud 


308  THE    OLD    HOUSE    13V    THE    RIVER. 

came  over,  and  Stephen  drove  the  horses  under  a  shed, 
and  came  into  the  store  to  tell  me  that  a  thunder  shower 
was  approaching. 

This  announcement  created  a  sensation,  and  I  learned 
that  intelligence  had  been  received  from  the  upper  part 
of  the  creek,  that  the  large  dam  below  Jacob  Small's 
farm  was  weak,  and  could  not  bear  much  more  of  a 
freshet.  If  the  thunder  shower  should  prove  heavy,  it 
might  add  the  drop  too  much ;  and  if  that  dam  gave  way, 
it  was  impossible  to  tell  how  many  of  those  below  it 
would  stand  the  pressure. 

But  the  dam  had  not  waited  for  the  thunder  shower, 
and  even  while  we  were  talking  of  it,  a  loud  cry  from  the 
side  of  the  creek  indicated  some  new  catastrophe,  and  a 
boy  ran  in  to  say  that  the  strong  current  was  over  its 
banks  and  carrying  away  mills  and  houses. 

The  terrors  of  that  evening  will  not  soon  be  forgotten 
in  the  village.  It  was  a  scene  of  wild  confusion  until  all 
the  houses  near  the  banks  were  emptied,  and  then  a  short 
respite  was  allowed  while  we  watched  the  rising  stream. 

I  had  of  course  remained  in  the  village,  and  when  the 
shower  was  over  I  sent  Stephen  out  with  the  horses  to 
explain  my  delay,  directing  him  to  return  for  me  in  the 
morning,  as  I  intended  to  remain  during  the  night. 

The  sun  had  set  with  unclouded  splendor,  and  the 
night  was  almost  as  light  as  day.  The  moon  was  not 
quite  full,  but  its  rays  were  brilliant  and  clear,  and  we 
worked  till  nine  o'clock  at  various  points  along  the 
stream.  Just  when  we  had  finished  and  were  resting  for 


LATER   YEARS.  309 

a  space,  a  messenger  came  into  the  village  saying  that 
the  creek  had  overflowed  the  island  and  swept  away  the 
hut  of  old  Abram,  a  negro,  who  lived  there  with  a  single 
grandchild. 

Old  Abram  had  been  a  family  servant  in  his  youth, 
and  was  now  a  sort  of  village  property.  He  had  a  pe 
culiar  faculty  at  a  hundred  different  employments,  and 
no  one  seemed  to  imagine  it  possible  to  get  through  a 
spring  without  his  services  in  one  or  another  of  his  capa 
cities.  Universally  known  as  he  was,  it  was  with  a  thrill 
of  horror  that  we  heard  of  his  danger  and  possible  death, 
and  the  whole  village  population  hastened  down  to  the 
island. 

About  a  half  mile  below  the  village  was  a  point  where 
the  creek  divided,  running  in  a  broad,  shallow  stream  on 
the  one  side  of  a  barren  patch  of  land,  while  on  the  other 
it  found  its  way  through  a  deep  and  dangerous  channel. 
The  upper  end  of  the  island  was  covered  with  willow  and 
alder  bushes,  that  usually  protected  it  from  the  wash  of 
the  creek.  Near  the  lower  end  were  three  trunks  of  old 
trees  long  since  dead,  which  stood  in  gigantic  decay,  while 
between  them  Abram  had  erected  a  cabin  in  which  he 
had  lived  for  many  years,  and  which  his  friends  had  made 
as  comfortable  for  him  in  every  respect  as  could  be  desired. 
His  only  companion  was  his  grandson,  a  boy  of  fifteen,  who 
was  the  veriest  imp  in  the  country,  and  was  as  universally 
detested  as  his  grandfather  was  valued.  Their  access  to 
the  island  had  been  over  a  long  piece  of  drift  timber  which 
Abram  had  elevated  to  the  dignity  of  a  bridge  across 


310  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    RIVER. 

the  deep  and  narrow  channel.  How  he  had  allowed  this 
to  be  swept  away  while  he  was  on  the  island  I  know  not, 
unless  it  was  the  sudden  effect  of  the  rush  from  the 
broken  dam.  But  as  we  approached  them  it  was  mani 
fest  that  Abram  and  his  boy  had  little  chance  of  again 
reaching  the  main  land.  The  creek  was  sweeping  furi 
ously  over  the  entire  breadth  of  the  island,  leaving  in 
sight  only  the  cabin  and  the  three  tall  trunks  of  trees, 
now  swaying  to  and  fro  in  the  fierce  current.  On  the 
roof  of  the  hut,  leaning  against  one  of  the  trees,  was  the 
old  man,  while,  cat-like,  the  boy  sat  perched  in  the  crotch 
over  his  grandfather's  head,  grinning  and  chattering  as 
we  could  see  even  at  the  distance  of  nearly  a  hundred 
yards.  All  near  approach  was  impracticable,  and  the 
idea  of  bridging  the  torrent  was  preposterous. 

A  hundred  plans  were  suggested,  but  the  only  feasible 
one,  that  of  drifting  timber  over  to  them,  seemed  too 
dangerous  to  attempt,  for  one  heavy  plank  might  carry 
them  away,  with  the  hut  and  the  trees,  into  hopeless  de 
struction.  Now  one  cried  one  plan,  and  another  another. 
The  women  wept,  and  wrung  their  hands,  as  if  their  own 
children  were  in  the  stream,  and  the  men  ran  foolishly 
up  and  down  the  bank  shouting  to  Abram  to  hold  on  for 
his  life,  as  if  he  needed  any  such  advice.  But  all  help 
of  man  seemed  vain,  and  the  old  man  appeared  to  feel 
it,  for  he  lifted  his  hands  in  the  moonlight,  and  I  saw 
that  he  was  praying.  It  was  not  the  first  time  either 
that  I  had  seen  Abram  talking  to  his  God ;  and  in  that 
hour  of  his  trial  it  was  comforting  to  us,  who  loved  the 


LATER    YEARS.  311 

poor  old  man,  to  know  that  his  lips  needed  no  teaching 
in  words  of  supplication  to  Him  who  holds  the  waters  in 
his  hand. 

Years  ago,  when  Joe  Willis's  mother  entered  the  dark 
valley  to  pass  through,  that  old  man  was  the  most  sincere 
mourner  among  the  servants.  He  had  lived  in  her 
father's  house  since  she  was  a  child,  and  had  been  freed 
from  slavery  by  her  desire.  The  memory  of  his  faithful 
affection  for  her  had  preserved  him  from  ever  wanting 
aught  in  this  world  that  money  could  supply,  while  his 
own  simple,  yet  earnest  faith  had,  I  doubt  not,  prepared 
him  long  ago  to  enter  that  world  which  he  seemed  now 
to  be  approaching  in  a  scene  so  terrible. 

At  length  some  of  the  men  selected  a  long  piece  of 
timber,  and  a  rope  was  secured  to  the  end  to  guide  it. 
Contrary  to  the  earnest  solicitations  of  the  wiser,  they 
launched  their  craft,  and  it  swept  down  over  the  island. 
At  first  it  seemed  to  approach  the  old  man  with  a  slow 
and  easily-managed  course,  but  suddenly  whirling  in  an 
eddy  it  dashed  against  the  frail  hut  and  stove  it  into  a 
hundred  pieces,  which  went  whirling  down  stream,  while 
Abram  clung  with  both  arms  around  the  trunk  of  the  tree 
on  which  the  boy  was  perched,  and  which  now  swayed 
more  heavily  downward  with  the  increased  weight.  A 
cry  of  horror  went  up  from  the  crowd,  and  at  that  mo 
ment  the  thunder  of  a  horse's  hoofs  was  heard  as  he  came 
down  the  road  at  a  long  gallop.  The  next  instant  I  saw 
Joe  Willis  on  Ibrahim  his  black  horse,  and  I  did  not 
doubt  that  the  old  man  was  saved. 


312  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY   THE    RIVER. 

Willis's  keen  eye  took  in  the  whole  scene,  and  without 
pausing  or  even  drawing  his  rein,  he  rose  lightly  in  his 
stirrups,  swept  the  river  with  a  quick  glance,  turned 
Ibrahim  on  the  same  swift  gallop  up  the  river  road,  and, 
at  a  hundred  rods  distance,  lifted  him  over  the  scrub  oak 
hedge,  dashed  down  the  abrupt  bank,  and  into  the  flood. 

For  a  moment  I  doubted,  as  the  swift  current  whirled 
them  around  and  downward,  but  only  for  a  moment. 
Ibrahim  and  his  master  had  breasted  such  floods  before, 
and  heading  the  stream  gallantly,  the  good  horse  resisted 
its  course,  and  advanced  slowly,  but  steadily,  toward  the 
middle,  so  that  he  reached  the  upper  end  of  the  island, 
and  after  a  desperate  struggle  planted  his  fore-feet  on  the 
edge.  Here,  after  two  ineffectual  attempts,  in  which  the 
soft  muddy  bank,  now  covered  with  a  rushing  torrent, 
yielded  to  his  weight,  he  at  length  obtained  foothold,  and 
lifted  himself  and  his  rider  to  the  level  of  the  plain  which 
used  to  be  called  jocularly,  "  Abram's  corn-field.-'  Over 
the  entire  surface  the  water  was  pouring  in  a  strong  flood, 
but  though  the  bottom  was  soft  and  uneven,  Willis  suc 
ceeded,  without  farther  difficulty,  in  riding  down  to  the 
trees.  He  was  just  in  time^  for  Abram's  hold  was  relax 
ing  as  Joe  caught  him,  and  shouted  to  the  boy  to  jump. 
The  boy  refused.  "  Jump,  yon  dog,  or  I'll  leave  you  to 
swim  for  yourself,"  we  could  hear  Joe  shout ;  and  the 
boy  now  obeyed.  Swinging  the  old  man  across  the  pom 
mel  of  his  saddle,  and  directing  the  boy  to  sit  firmly 
behind  without  holding  fast  to  him,  Joe  guided  the 
horse  carefully  toward  the  edge  of  the  island,  and  as  he 


LATER   YEARS.  313 

plunged  into  the  deep  and  wild  current,  Joe  threw  him 
self  from  his  back,  and  laying  one  hand  on  his  mane,  swam 
by  his  side,  while  the  boy,  with  his  usual  impudence  and 
skill,  assumed  the  saddle. 

The  intense  interest  of  the  whole  populace  assembled 
on  the  bank  had  produced  profound  silence  during  all 
this  time,  and  they  now  followed  the  struggling  group 
down  stream,  as  they  were  swept  along  slowly  nearing 
the  shore.  When  within  a  rod  of  the  land,  Abram  fell 
from  the  horse.  He  had  lain  prostrate  across  the  pom 
mel  of  the  saddle,  and  Joe  had  kept  him  on ;  but  his  fee 
ble  grasp  relaxed,  and  Joe  failed  to  catch  him. 

"Let  the  reins  alone,  you  young  scoundrel,"  I  heard 
Joe  shout  as  he  left  the  horse,  and  dove  for  Abram.  He 
seized  him  the  next  instant,  and  by  a  violent  effort,  suc 
ceeded  in  reaching  land,  at  almost  the  same  moment  with 
Ibrahim,  who  stood  neighing  and  pawing  the  ground  as 
if  he  felt  all  the  greatness  of  the  work  he  had  accom 
plished.  And  then  a  shout  went  up  in  the  forest  that 
drowned  the  roar  of  the  torrent. 

By  the  time  that  all  this  was  over,  the  air  had  grown 
cold  j  and  as  Joe  laid  the  old  man  on  the  bank,  I  could 
see  that  he  was  himself  in  a  condition  to  need  assistance. 
For  several  weeks  I  had  fancied  that  he  was  not  well, 
and  before  the  next  evening  after  this  gallant  adventure, 
he  was  in  a  violent  fever. 

For  three  weeks  I  watched  by  him  from  morning  till 
morning,  and  then  he  was  pronounced  convalescent ;  but 
he  had  suffered  much,  and  was  far  from  believing  him- 
14 


314  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    RIVER. 

self  to  be  mending.  On  the  contrary,  he  insisted  that 
he  had  within  him  some  deep-seated  disease,  which 
crushed  his  spirits,  and  prevented  his  regaining  his  ac 
customed  vigor  and  health. 

The  summer  passed  slowly  along,  and  we  never  left  the 
old  house  from  May  to  September. 

Seated  on  the  old  stone  steps,  under  the  deep  shadow 
of  the  large  pine  trees  which  overtop  the  front  of  the 
house,  and  reach  almost  a  hundred  feet  into  the  sky  with 
their  dark  impenetrable  green,  we  whiled  away  the  fore 
noons  of  the  summer,  reading  or  talking ;  and  when  the 
evening  came  down  with  all  the  twilight  glories  of  our 
American  summer  evenings,  we  returned  to  the  library, 
and  looking  out  of  the  large  window,  watched  the  fading 
light  in  melancholy  silence.  We  grew  sadly  stupid,  both 
of  us ;  but  sought  no  remedy  for  the  blues,  rather  loving 
them  and  cherishing  them. 

Sometimes,  but  not  often,  we  drove  out  in  the  carriage. 
We  never  went  on  horseback.  Ibrahim  was  in  the  sta 
ble  constantly,  except  when  the  groom  took  him  out  for 
exercise  ;  and  then  we  would  often  sit  and  watch  him  fly 
ing  across  the  park,  or  up  the  long  avenue  of  elms ;  but 
I  do  not  think  that  Willis  felt  one  moment's  ambition  to 
be  again  on  him. 

But  one  evening  when  the  autumn  chill  had  suggested 
a  fire  of  wood  on  the  broad  hearth  in  the  south  room,  and 
we  sat  before  the  crackling  logs,  and  enjoyed  the  warmth 
and  ruddy  beauty  of  the  flames,  Joe  suddenly  appeared  to 
rouse  himself,  and  resume  his  accustomed  cheerfulness. 


LATER    YEARS. 


"  There  must  be  an  end  to  this,  Philip." 
«  To  what,  Joe  ?" 

«  To  this  miserable  way  of  living,  rather  of  dying ;  for 
I  haven't  been  more  than  half  alive  for  six  months." 

"  I  have  been  hoping  that  the  autumn  air  would  in 
vigorate  you." 

«  No,  Phil,  it  will  not.     I  believe  that  one  thing  only 
has  oppressed  me,  and  that  is  the  fear  of  dying.     I  con 
fess  to  you  frankly  that  I  have  been  all  summer  long 
bowed  down  with  the  idea  that  I  should  never  get  well. 
It  would  be  romantic,  sentimental,  poetic,  for  me  to  say 
that  I  do  not  care  to  live  since  those  I  love  best  are  dead. 
And  you  know  well  that  those  I  love  best  of  all,  not 
even  excepting  you  Philip  Phillips,  are  on  the  other  side 
of  the  deep  river.     But  I  do  love  to  live.     I  do  desire 
health  and  strength,  and  long  life.     I  have  no  wish  to 
rest  yet.     It  is  cowardly  to  shrink  from  living  only  be 
cause  the  companions  we  thought  to  live  with  are  gone; 
it  is  weakness  to  desire  to  join  them  before  we  have  ac 
complished  anything  here.     I  trust  that  when  the  hour 
and  the  moment  arrive,  I  shall  be  found  ready,  and  the 
staff  on  which  I  lean  will  stay  me  then.     But  for  the 
present  I  would  live.     I  have  much  to  do  here,  much  to 
plan,  much  to  complete,  and  well  as  I  love  the  pleasant 
company  in  the  other  country,  I  love  the  old  house  and 
the  people  here  too,  and  by  my  faith  I  love  this  body  and 
breath  of  mine.     Phil,  we  must  take  advice.     Let   us 
ring  for  Anthony  and  send  him  after  old  Doctor  Wilson. 
We  will  have  a  talk  over  it." 


316  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    RIVER. 

So  the  Doctor  came  the  next  day,  and  examined  Joe, 
and  gave  no  opinion  about  his  case,  but  returned  the  day 
after  with  a  friend,  a  physician  of  some  note  in  the  city, 
and  they  two  formed  a  clear  diagnosis  of  the  complaint. 
And  the  conclusion  to  which  they  came  was  that  no  me 
dicine  would  effect  a  radical  cure,  but  that  a  sea- voyage, 
and  a  long  journey  of  pleasure,  would  renovate  the  whole 
man.  "  You  must  make  up  your  mind  to  it,  Joseph," 
said  Dr.  Wilson  as  he  was  leaving ;  "  We  can't  spare  you 
here,  but  we  can  do  without  you  better  for  a  year  or  two 
than  forever." 

And  so  it  was  settled.  The  old  house  must  be  de 
serted  and  we  must  go  on  far  travel.  I  say  we,  for  it 
never  occurred  to  either  of  us  then  that  one  could  travel 
without  the  other,  and  it  was  a  sad  blow  to  both  when  the 
circumstances  arose  which  made  it  necessary  for  me  to 
remain  at  least  a  few  months  longer,  and  that  with  a 
faint  hope  of  joining  Willis  in  the  following  spring.  And 
we  made  all  ready  for  the  departure.  The  evenings  grew 
more  pleasant  and  gay.  The  old  house  was  filled  with 
company,  all  the  country  around  coming  to  see  us  before 
we  should  leave  them ;  and  Lucy  and  her  family  made 
their  home  with  us.  Long  and  pleasant  were  the  talks 
we  had  of  distant  countries  and  the  scenes  through  which 
we  were  to  pass,  and  when  the  necessity  for  my  remaining 
became  apparent,  we  talked  the  more  of  our  probable 
meeting  at  Alexandria  or  in  Palestine. 

He  sailed  from  New  York.  The  Phantom  kept  us 
company  till  Fire  Island  light  gleamed  on  the  larboard 


LATER   YEARS.  31 7 

beam  in  the  early  evening,  and  I  then  hailed  Henry  to 
send  me  a  boat,  and  pressed  my  old  friend's  hand  and 
left  him.  As  my  little  boat  danced  across  the  water  to 
the  Phantom  I  looked  back  and  saw  him  leaning  over 
the  rail,  with  his  heavy  coat  buttoned  up  to  his  chin, 
and  the  dark  look  of  sorrow  on  his  face  reached  me  even 
then.  I  gained  the  deck  of  the  Phantom,  and  he  was  still 
there ;  and  as  I  took  the  helm  and  we  came  into  the  wind 
and  bore  away  for  our  old  home,  he  lifted  his  hat  once 
and  waved  it  toward  us,  and  I  saw  him  no  more. 

I  returned  to  the  old  house  and  closed  it,  leaving  the 
housekeeper  in  charge.  Anthony  had  as  usual  accom 
panied  his  master.  Years  rolled  on  and  Joe  Willis  re 
mained  a  wanderer,  and  long  ere  he  returned,  the  new 
employments  and  enjoyments  of  life  in  the  city  had  en 
snared  me,  and  our  pleasant  life  in  the  old  house  was  for 
ever  ended. 

Sometimes  we  go  there,  but  it  does  not  appear  as  it 
used.  Joe  and  myself  think  we  are  unchanged,  but  we 
cannot  enjoy  the  calm,  quiet  life,  we  used  to  love  so  well, 
and  a  week  at  the  old  house  ends  in  a  fit  of  ennui.  Our 
city  homes  are  full  of  life  and  gaiety,  and  we  hasten  back 
to  them.  In  the  winter  we  have  sometimes  taken  sleigh- 
loads  of  laughing,  boisterous  children,  or  young  people 
from  the  city,  and  driven  out  to  the  bank  of  the  river. 
The  housekeeper,  having  notice  of  our  projected  visit, 
has  opened  the  rooms,  and  the  fires  are  blazing  glori 
ously  in  the  fire-places. 

So  it  was  in  the  only  sleighing  that  we  had  last  winter. 


318  THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    RIVER. 

We  went  out  with  a  pleasant  company  of  friends  to  show 
them  the  old  house  whereof  they  had  heard  so  many 
stories.  It  was  dinner-time  when  we  arrived,  and  Willis 
did  the  honors  of  his  old  home  with  all  the  grace  and 
dignity  of  the  stately  judge  who  preceded  him.  But 
after  dinner  was  over,  and  when  they  were  beginning  to 
make  merry  in  the  large  drawing-room,  and  the  sound  of 
music,  and  the  laughter  of  young,  gay,  light-hearted  boys 
and  maidens  rang  through  the  hall,  I  thought  it  sacrilege, 
and  stole  out  and  up  the  stair-case,  with  noiseless  foot 
step,  to  the  door  of  my  own  rooms;  and  as  I  passed 
along  I  saw  the  door  of  Willis's  room  open,  and  by  the 
blaze  of  his  hearth-fire  saw  the  same  old  drapery,  and  the 
dark  furniture,  and  the  massive  carved  bed,  and  in  the 
deep  window  stood  my  friend  with  his  arms  folded,  look 
ing  out  into  the  white  moonlight,  and  down  the  leafless 
avenue,  and  away  toward  the  spire  of  the  village  church 
and  the  resting-place  of  Ellen  Willis. 


THE    END. 


old  house  by3 th 


M181748 


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